


Razzle-Dazzle!

by DancingDowager



Series: Red Velvet: Theatre AU [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Jealous Keith (Voltron), Keith learns to family, Keith the secret Lance stan, Krolia learns to family, Laith, M/M, Moviestar Lance, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn, Smut will be skippable if you prefer, Stage Manager Keith, The team are already a family and I love it, Theatre, Theatre AU, hopefully not too slow, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-05-02 15:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingDowager/pseuds/DancingDowager
Summary: The Castle of Lions theatre is the only real home - and family - Keith has ever known. Now it's struggling, the team come up with a plan to save it: bringing in the movie star, Lance McClain.Problem is, Keith has been a McClain fan for years. And Lance isn't quite the guy he imagined...





	1. Casting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HaddieMererid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaddieMererid/gifts), [EmmzeElf15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmzeElf15/gifts).



> Hello, or hello again! I promised a theatre AU and here it is. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it, and boy am I gonna enjoy this one!
> 
> This is gifted to HaddieMererid, the poor soul who has to listen to me rant about my fanfic ideas, and EmmzeElf15 who would probably have to do the same if she was in the country.

Lance scanned over the contract one last time, grin widening with every familiar name. He lifted a hand to sign it; only to have his fingers enveloped in Hunk’s familiar larger ones.

“You are sure about this, right?” his manager asked, concern welling in his eyes. Lance frowned, lifting a delicate eyebrow.  

“Uh, yeah? This is the chance of a lifetime, buddy.”

“But you’ve never done theatre before.”

“Dude, relax.” He eased himself free, writing his name with a flourish, like he did for autographs. “I’ve got this.” He gave Hunk a reassuring smile along with the clipboard. “Mrs Bettel said I was the best Mercutio she’d ever seen.”

Hunk sighed but took the proffered document, teeth working at his lower lip. “I really don’t think a school play counts as experience.”

“You said yourself that this part is perfect for me.”

“It is. I just wish it was in a film.”

“Hey, man.” Lance propped his elbows on his armrests, frowning. “What gives? You think I can’t handle it?”

“No!” Hunk rushed. “I know you can. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

Lance scoffed. “In what? We’re talking about _The Castle of Lions_ , here. Alfor Altea’s own theatre. With his own company.”

“I know, but -”

“- with his daughter, Hunk!”

“Okay, see, there’s part of it. We don’t actually know Allura Altea is starring. She hasn’t acted for a while, and if you’re getting excited just because of that -”

“I’m not.” Hunk stopped, and Lance found his eye. He ticked points off on his fingers. “Alfor Altea’s theatre, the company he founded, and a play he performed. With or without his daughter, that’s as close it gets to acting with the man himself.” He dropped his hands and leaned back, the expensive leather of his chair creaking. “Come on, Hunk. Whoever I have to work with, this is gonna be a blast.”  


 

Keith should have known they were up to something. He should have realised it when he walked into the theatre manager’s office and found Coran and Shiro frozen in the awkward, uncanny tableaux of people interrupted.

“Keith,” Shiro said, a shade too brightly. The air, already cramped with the two men, filing cabinets and memorabilia, felt too thick. “Good morning.”

“You’re very early,” Coran followed up, eager. He planted his elbows on his desk, screening a printout. “Everything tickety-boo?”

Keith looked from piercing blue to Shiro’s steady grey. “Uh, yeah?”

“Excellent,” Coran said, breezily. He rummaged in his drawer and retrieved a thick bundle of keys one-handed, passing it over. “Here you go. Don’t let us older folk keep you.”

If Shiro objected to being an older folk, he didn’t say so. Bland smiles and silence followed Keith as he retreated back-of-house.

Away from the gleaming gilt and pristine carpets of the public spaces, _The Castle of Lions_ was a warren. The main office backed onto a short, wood-panelled corridor which linked a cluster of stuffy little rooms to the stairs. Down those, Keith descended into the real workings of the place. The renovation thirty years ago had scrubbed the narrow tiled corridors clean; but nothing could lift the smells of paint and talc and old perfume, or the glitter trampled into the grout. A patina of past performances, worn like jewellery. Keith liked it. It told history more truthfully than the posters on display.

He picked his way through packed storage rooms under sharp fluorescents, hunting down a set of serious-looking chairs for the live recording of a radio show that night. Easy gig. He just had to run the lights and mics, the radio people would handle the rest. He found what he needed under some dusty fake flowers, a plastic typewriter and an old parachute; had them all cleaned up before Allura arrived to help. She was somehow as glamorous as ever, even in a crop top and lycra leggings, fresh from the gym and full of energy and stories about her new yoga instructor. He only made half an effort to listen as they wrestled the furniture into the battered old service lift. He didn’t need to hear the words to tell she was doing better.

There was a low swoop in his belly when he stepped onto the stage; scuffed and bare and pockmarked with old tape; the same sensation every time, whatever the reason. He and Allura arranged things under the watchful eyes of an audience of one: Pidge, swaddled in a hoodie so oversized she wore it in rolls like the Michelin man’s. She reluctantly surrendered her Americano to go and test the lights, but was spared the climb to the box when Shiro and Coran stepped into the auditorium. She snatched the precious caffeine back with a stuck-out tongue and a noisy slurp.

“No Matt today?” Coran asked, frowning as she settled into a seat, critical eye lingering on her disregard for the ‘no drinks’ rule.

“He’s at home feeling sorry for himself,” she reported without sympathy.

“Matt is unwell,” Shiro supplied with considerably more. He leaned against the front of the stage, flesh and prosthetic arm crossed loosely over his chest. Keith sat down in front of him with Allura, Pidge in the row behind.

“Oh dear.” Coran clucked his tongue. “Tell him to get well soon from us, won’t you Pidge?”

The tiny girl’s eyeroll was almost audible. “When he stops whining, maybe.”

“Are we covered for tonight without him?” Coran asked, breezing over the apparent lack of sisterly concern.

“We are if you three can manage front-of house,” Keith said. “I’ll work tech so Pidge can stay home. Shiro can take over in the wings for me?” His friend nodded.

“Then I’ll take the box office,” Allura offered.

“Right. Right, well. About the box office.” Coran sucked in a breath, deep enough to make the orange hairs of his moustache flutter. “You’ve probably realised ticket sales have been slow of late.”

He was answered with grim nods. The last few touring companies had performed to a half-empty theatre, disappointment large on the cast’s faces and small takings in their pockets.

“While we have other sources of funding -” the manager exchanged a fond, weary look with Allura, “- _The Castle_ was never meant to run on those alone. And, to be perfectly frank, it can’t.”

He looked over them all, the weight of his words tight and hard in Keith’s chest. He made his fingers uncurl from the prickling velvet.

“I’ve tried appealing to external bodies for help, but it seems everybody is feeling the strain. There’s a lot of competition, and they’re just not willing to support any company in our unique position.” He paused, grave. “One way or another, we must improve sales if we want to keep Alfor’s legacy alive. Fortunately, we think we have an opportunity to do just that.” His mouth curled upwards, glowing with pride. “ _Voltron Company_ never disappoints, and with our _new production_ -” they leaned in, excited, “-we’re sure everyone’s attention will be on us once again! Shiro?”

The director accepted the hand-off smoothly. “Our next piece will be David Iverson’s _Aphrodite in Silk_ ,” he announced.

Pidge whistled. Beside Keith, Allura sat bolt upright: slender fingers pressing to the soft skin of her lip over a gasp. Her eyes seemed suspiciously glittery. Keith shifted. Were you supposed to comfort someone who was about to happy cry? Would Allura appreciate a shoulder pat or something? It _was_ happiness, right? Yeah. Yes, her eyes were bright but cheerful: enormous as they met Shiro’s; laden with understanding.

“Allura will play Sanda, of course,” he said. Then his gaze settled unmistakably, irrevocably on Keith. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck without knowing why. “And the role of Blaytz will be played by Lance McClain.”

No.

No way.

That had to be a joke.

“ _What?!_ ” Pidge shrieked, rocketing to her feet. Even standing in the row behind, she was hardly taller than he was. The fingers of her free hand dug into the cushion by his shoulder. “ _The_ Lance McClain?”

“The very same,” Coran replied, nodding. “We didn’t like to say anything before we were certain, but his manager sent his agreement through this morning.”

“The _real_ Lance McClain?” Pidge pressed, as if there were a fake running around. “As in Oscar-nominee, feature-film starring, three times voted ‘man-I-most-want-the-love-child-of’ Lance McClain?”

“That never happened,” Keith interrupted before he could stop himself. Shiro was still watching him; mouth twitching into a smirk. Heat blossomed in Keith’s neck. At least he had his hair down.

“I made it up,” Pidge admitted blithely, shameless. “You know what I mean. _That_ Lance McClain? Keith’s Lance McClain?”

“He’s not mine!” Keith protested. The cruel flush was spreading from his nape to his jawline, spurred on by Allura’s giggle.

Shiro was openly smug now. “That’s the guy.”

Pidge cackled; poking his back. “How about that, Keith?”

“How can we afford that?” he demanded, shrugging away from the prodding and Allura’s sly elbow to his ribs. He glared at Shiro, who was still wearing that smug look. Jerk. “Have you sold a kidney or something? Are you gonna have two prosthetic arms now?”

“Mr McClain will be working for the same rates as any of us,” Shiro replied mildly. “It seems he’s taken the role for personal reasons. According to his agent, he’s a big Alfor Altea fan.” He cocked his head, amusement dripping off his square chin. “But I’m guessing you already knew that, right?”

Pidge howled. Keith stepped up his scowl, reminding himself it was unprofessional to punch the resident director, even if he was your best friend and asking for it. As a matter of fact, he _did_ know that about Lance McClain. Among other things. But Shiro couldn’t know he knew, could he? Not unless his stupid complexion gave him away. It wasn’t like he’d watched any Lance McClain interviews with him… well, maybe once or twice.

“It’ll be good for the theatre,” he offered finally, nearly biting his tongue with the effort of speaking normally.

“And great for Keith’s view,” Pidge quipped. Keith twisted and seized her coffee; taking a deliberate swig. He grimaced through the cool bitterness and her angry yelp. He wasn’t awake enough for this. 

“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity,” Allura said suggestively, trying to catch his eye. He wasn’t awake enough for that, either.

“Careful, princess. He’ll be after your part next.”

“Our first read-through is next Monday, nine o-clock sharp,” Shiro said, voice raised over Keith’s retort. “We’ve only got about two months on this, start to finish, so expect to be busy. And I know _some_ of us will be very excited about working with a star of McClain’s calibre -” Keith channelled into his face just how much he hated Shiro at that moment. His friend didn’t seem to care, “- but keep it under wraps, please. There’s a gag order on this until we’re ready to start promoting. No hints on social media, however cryptic. We don’t need any reporters or obsessed fans hanging around here.”

“Any _other_ obsessed fans,” Pidge corrected, merciless.

 

 

Keith wasn’t obsessed. He was… _dedicated_ , yes. But that wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t like _that_.

The distinction didn’t stop him from obsessing a little. His head was still reeling when he got home, a few hours past a reasonable one, pushing the kickstand on his bike down and pulling his helmet off. For a moment, alone in the quiet dark of the garage, he let himself slump over the handlebars, face warmed by the heat radiating off the petrol tank.

Lance McClain. In his theatre.

Lance McClain, for a whole two months. Two months to watch him work; follow the whole process from the beginning to the last bow.

Well, unless the others ribbed him to death.

Keith took the steps up into the apartment building carefully, painfully aware of the hour and the rubber squeak of his motorcycle boots on the polished floors. He stopped outside their door, light spilling across his toes, and took a breath to steady himself before he tried it. Sure enough, it was open: he stepped through into yellow brightness and warmth, the smells of gravy and veg.

Their flat was a comfortable, open-plan affair: all muted, tasteful colours and uninspired, too-clean furniture. To Keith, it felt a bit like living in a catalogue; even with his mother occupying the sofa, the centre of a mosaic of papers and files. Her laptop was balanced across her knees.

“Long day?” she asked, watching with careful, dark eyes as he stripped out of his boots.

“Yeah.” He straightened, hand wrapping around his backpack strap.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“I made something for dinner. Do you like moussaka?”

He had no idea, so shrugged. “Sure. Thanks. You didn’t have to wait. Or cook.”

Krolia smiled slightly; tentative. “I know.” She pressed her laptop closed and stood up. “Do you need a minute?”

Strange, the things she just seemed to know. He didn’t try to hide the relief that dropped his shoulders.

“Thanks.”

“When you’re ready then.”

Keith padded away, socked feet pressing into the plush carpet.

His bedroom had a sturdy door. He leant against it, letting his bag slid to the floor, tilting his head back so his bangs fell away from his face. He worked through a breathing exercise in his head, trying to put his thoughts in order with the rise and fall of his chest. Instead, his eyes sought out the poster above his bed. It was a reproduction, nicely framed; and between the artfully brooding face of the lead and the neat serif letters of the title, there was Lance McClain in profile, wistful in his first film role. _The Boy in Blue._

It all started with that story. When Keith was fifteen, he found the source novel in a charity shop basket; battered and dog-eared; and bought it on a whim. He hadn’t expected then to love it, or to cry, or to turn from the last page to the first and start reading it all over again while the sun bled into the next day’s sky. The story followed a lone boy, hardly a man, running from a friend who’d fallen in love with him into a world that didn’t care, or didn’t care enough. Even after the pages were soft under his fingers and the words as familiar as his own name, Keith kept the book with him. It was pressed against his chest in an inside pocket when he went to see the film adaptation.

He still remembered the day. He went alone; to a ratty, sticky cinema in the worst part of town. Picked a seat near the doors, ready to leave. Felt faintly sick as the opening logos rolled, and not just from the cloying sweetness of spilled coke and molten pick-a-mix. And then he stayed, watching it twice.

After that, he learned all there was to know about Lance McClain. Found old recordings of fleeting appearances in daytime dramas and adverts. Picked up magazines; watched films and extras and commentaries. His old copy of the book, now held together by wishes and yellowing selotape, was propped up on his shelf by a row of DVDs. Titles that started printing ‘Lance McClain’ on the cover; name and image growing over time. A career told in proportions. The others teased him about his ‘crush’ of course, but Keith knew that wasn’t what it was. It was a respect thing.

And if he joined the official fan club, so what? Nobody had to know.

Slowly, Keith went through his bag; tossing his keys and wallet onto the bedspread with a tinny clatter. He lifted the script out with more reverence; newly printed and arranged in a folder with ‘Stage Manager copy’ scrawled across the front. He flipped it open, thumbing over the pages until he found a scene where Blaytz, a director, was acting with Allura’s character Sanda. Blaytz became Antok and Sanda Vakala.

 

**_Blaytz/Antok:_ ** _I was barely a man when I saw her first. Some trifling acquaintance of the time had invited me to a gathering in Venice; full of fine people. She was the finest. Beautiful, elegant, graceful as a bird in flight. She moved lightly, as though she were made of the same moonlight silk as her gown. There was not a person there who was not enchanted by her. She spoke kindly to them, when they dared approach; soft and gentle, and always something worth their hearing._

**_Sanda/Vakala:_ ** _An educated woman, then?_

**_Blaytz/Antok:_ ** _Certainly. I was enthralled._

**_Sanda/Vakala:_ ** _What did you speak about?_

**_Blaytz/Antok:_ ** _Oh! Nothing. I could not stir myself to approach her, surrounded by so many admirers, all of them more worthy than I. Perhaps I might have done, in time, if I found the courage; but I could not. You see, this woman – this perfect woman! – did not come alone. Her husband was with her; a tall, respectable fellow: a Count, I remember. Yes, a Count; but other than these points, there was little to recommend him. Nothing particular in his countenance or manners or mind. And yet, when she looked at him, boundless devotion was held in her eyes. She loved him, it was plain. It changed me, seeing it. I knew then that I could never love a woman less than she was. No-one but another so flawless could stir my heart, after her. And more, I determined that I would love as she did; as wholly and completely. That when I found such a woman, I would love her entirely; devote everything of myself to her, and for my whole life._

Keith shivered, his imagination delivering the lines in Lance McClain’s voice. He could see it too: the picture he’d make with Allura. Bronze and silver. Beautiful. Electric. Air crackling in the theatre, half the crowd holding their breath. Sure, it would be hard. It was a hard play; two-handers were always tricky.

They’d make it happen.

He was slightly shaky when he put the folder aside and padded back out into the flat.

In the main room, all the documents had been cleared away, swift as a good scene change; a slim black briefcase tucked flush to the sofa. Krolia was stood at the kitchen counter, and wordlessly tipped a bottle of wine in his direction. Two steaming plates and glasses were already waiting. Keith shook his head and she poured just one glass, taking it and her own dinner back to the settee. He followed, perching at the opposite end.

They ate, cutlery scraping against ceramic.

“Today was the radio recording, wasn’t it? Did it go well?”

Keith swallowed around hot aubergine. “Ah. Yeah, alright.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really.” Nothing interesting enough to distract him from his distraction, anyway.

“How is Shiro?”

“Fine. He said Adam might be back for a visit soon.”

“Ah. Good.”

“Hm.”

He picked at some stewed potato. Krolia ate a few more forkfuls.

“What about the others?”

“They’re okay. Matt is sick. Flu.” Krolia pulled a face. “Yeah.”

Half his dinner was already gone. His mother sipped at her drink, condensation pearling on the glass. Keith chewed, buying time with another mouthful and not letting himself hesitate afterwards.

“We’re doing a new play.”

“Voltron Company is?”

“Yeah. _Aphrodite in Silk_. David Iverson.”

His mother leaned back, turning the wine stem in her fingers. “I’ve heard of that, I think.” She paused, frowning. “Not as a play though. A book. An old love story.”

“It’s based on that.” His plate was clean. So was hers. He slid his onto the coffee table, hovering with his hands in his lap. “It’s complicated.”

Krolia said nothing in response, simply set her crockery aside and turned her body towards him, leaning against the armrest and lifting a brow to invite him to continue.

“It’s sort of… a play within a play. The main character, Blaytz, has adapted _Aphrodite in Silk_ – that’s the book - for the stage, but he can’t find an actress to play the main part, Vakala.” Krolia nodded to show she understood. “Well, then this actress, Sanda, turns up late and asks to audition.” He looked at his hands, picking at cracks in the leather of his motorbike gloves. He’d forgotten to take them off. Again. “Blaytz doesn’t really want to let her, because she’s nothing like the part. She’s cynical, and the play is supposed to be about true love, love at first sight, and she says she doesn’t believe in it. But she persuades him to let her try, and they’re kind of interested in each other, so she reads for Vakala and he reads the other part, Antok.” He risked a look; his mother’s dark purplish eyes – the ones she’d shared with him – were still focused on his face. “Sanda is brilliant, and as they read they start to fall for each other. Just like the characters in the book.”

“So she gets the part?”

“In the end. Sort of.”

“Sounds interesting.” They fell into silence; Krolia taking another sip. Keith balled his hands into each other. Did he just leave, now?

“Do you believe in it?” Krolia asked him, suddenly.

“What?”

Her gaze was level. “True love. Love at first sight.”

Keith blinked, chest tightening. “I -”

“You don’t have to answer,” Krolia interrupted, quick. “Sorry. Personal question.” She drained her wine. “I’d like to come and see it. The play. When is it?”

“September.”

“I’ll get a ticket.”

“I can get you one.” He broke off, fidgeting. “Coran always keeps some back for us. I’ve never… but I can take one this time. If you want.”

Her eyes went soft, eating at his belly like moussaka didn’t agree with him. “Thankyou, Keith. I would like that.”

“No problem.” He stood, abruptly. “I’ll get this.”

“No need,” Krolia insisted, waving him off. “You must be tired.”

“But you cooked. I can -”

“I’ve got it.” She smiled. “Go rest. It sounds like you’ll be busy.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Keith.”

“Goodnight.”

 

 

“Awww Mom, I miss you too,” Lance crooned. “I’ll come and visit soon, I promise. After this.” He gazed out at the traffic; a few spatters of rain dappling the window. The cars around them chafed and growled at each other like angry hounds, waiting for the gun. Lance returned a rude gesture to an Audi driver, safe behind the tinted glass. “No, definitely. In time for Louis’ birthday. I’ve just gotta do this first. It’s… it’s gonna be awesome, Mom. I’ll get you all tickets. You gotta come.”

In the front seat, Hunk glanced up at him _via_ the rear-view mirror. The manager seized an opportunity to pull the car forward a few precious inches.

“Okay, maybe not the kids. The little ones. But the rest of you! Yeah. Yeah. No, we’re on the way now.” Just really _slowly_. Hunk fidgeted, knuckles pale on the wheel, itching to move. “I dunno… Hunk, where _are_ we staying?”

“The Hotel Royal,” his friend answered, lifting his voice to be heard over the phone.

“Did you get that? Yeah, the Hotel Royal. Hunk, is there a -”

“Yes, there’s a pool. And a spa.”

Lance grinned, phone still pressed to his ear. “You’re the best, buddy. Just the best.” He flinched away from a sharp word. “Yes, yes, except for you, Mom, obviously.” Hunk chuckled. “Yeah, okay. I will. I promise. Okay. See you soon, Mom. Love you.”

Lance dropped his phone to the seat as soon as he heard it beep. It bounced a little on the leather. “Oh man. Oh man. This is gonna be good, Hunk, this is gonna be so good!”

“As long as you’re sure.”

“Too late now buddy, signed on the dotted line.”

“I guess.” Hunk dragged the car forward again, creeping along the road like an asthmatic tortoise with a limp. He met Lance’s eyes in the mirror. “Just… promise me you won’t overdo it and get stressed or disappointed, yeah? Promise you’ll be okay?”

“Hunk, I’m gonna be better than okay,” Lance said, stretching out. “I’m gonna be _amazing_.”


	2. Read-through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I admire his acting, that’s all.”  
> “Yeah, and the rest of him.”

Lance McClain was late.

Keith was sitting with Pidge in the auditorium, script laid across his thighs, notes already scrawled in the margins. He spun a mechanical pencil from hand to hand while she tapped at her phone. As Matt was still sick, it was just the two of them, Shiro and Allura in the theatre while Coran worked in the office. The director and actress were perched on the end of the stage, talking quietly. The words grew more and more sporadic as the seconds dragged past the half hour.

“Are you nervous?” Pidge asked, idly. The reflection of the article she was reading scrolled past on her glasses lens. Keith added a comma to his notes, just to look busy.

“About what?”

“About the inevitable heat-death of the universe,” she replied, deadpan. “About meeting your hero, dumbass.”

“He’s not my hero.”

“Your idol, then.”

“I admire his acting, that’s all.”

“Yeah, and the rest of him.”

“Lots of actors are attractive.”

“So you admit he’s attractive.”

Keith rubbed out the comma. “I’m not nervous,” he lied.

“Then will you skip straight to the flirting?”

“What?”

The bright white screen was frozen on her glasses, eyes fixed on him instead. “You know everything about him already. So you can skip getting to know him and move straight to the good stuff, right? Except, you know. Not straight.”

“I’m not going to flirt with Lance McClain,” Keith insisted, teeth pinned together. Pidge opened her mouth, but Shiro came to his rescue.

“We might as well make a start,” he said. Pidge’s lenses went dark as she bundled her phone into a pocket.

“Without one of the main characters?”

“Not much choice, is there?” Shiro said lightly, but Keith could tell he was annoyed. He got this pinch in the corner of his mouth. “Keith, if you could read Blaytz, I’ll handle stage directions. We’re going from the top.” He cleared his throat, giving them time to straighten up. He read on with a calm, modulated narrative voice.

“ _A studio, late afternoon. Thunder and lightning can be heard from outside. There is a coffee machine, a scruffy prop divan, and a couple of chairs. There is a fuse box on the wall. Blaytz is on the phone.”_

“ _No, no good. Not one of them. Not one, in the whole of New York. It’s ridiculous; you’d think half of them had never acted before, whatever their résum_ _és say_ ,” Keith began, as Blaytz. “ _I’ll have to put out another call. They’re all either too timid, or too vapid, or too damn cynical. If I could -”_

He was interrupted by the auditorium doors. Coran bustled through them, leading a walking mountain that Keith recognised.

“Everyone, this is Hunk Garret. Mr McClain’s manager.”

“Hi, Hi. Hunk, please, just call me Hunk. Everyone else does.” Enormous brown hands enveloped each of theirs in turn, firm but controlled shakes that rattled all the way up to the shoulder joint. The big man’s smile was equally powerful; broad as its wearer. Next to Hunk, even Shiro looked normal sized. “Mr Shirogane? Lance and I have read all about your work. Really excited to be working with you.”

“My pleasure,” Shiro said, sincerely. “Is Mr McClain with you?”

Hunk’s face creased, honey-brown eyes crinkling up. “He’s on his way. I’m so, so sorry about today. We were all ready to go, but someone tipped the paparazzi off about the hotel; we had to use Plan Zarkon to get out of there.”

“Plan Zarkon?” Pidge queried, sharp.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry, Lance likes to use codenames for that kinda thing. Basically I made a scene to distract the press while he took off in disguise.”

“So we should expect him soon?” Allura asked, pointedly glancing at her watch.

“Really soon! Again, so sorry. We’ll be out that hotel by the end of the week, find something more private. Don’t wanna give the game away!” Hunk scanned their faces, skipping nervously over Keith’s frown. He tried to straighten it out, but couldn’t. His nerve endings felt frayed. “Can I make it up to you?” Hunk suggested, hopefully. “Cookies?”

“What kind of cookies?” Pidge asked, eyes narrowed.

Hunk’s lip twisted. “I’m thinking chocolate shortbread, maybe with a peanut butter-cream filling? What do you think?”

Pidge lifted onto her tiptoes to pat Hunk’s gargantuan bicep. Her tone was solemn. “You are forgiven.”

Hunk beamed.

“Keith?”

Keith was already turning, hauling himself up onto the stage. He hid from Shiro’s querying look in his own shoulders. “I’m going to check the fire curtain.” Which he’d checked yesterday, but whatever.

So, yeah. He was nervous.

Habit and familiarity carried him through the blacks into the wings without trouble, and he made a show of lowering the fire curtain and pacing up and down it, inspecting. Or just pacing, really, working through every technique he’d ever learned to keep himself under control. On the other side, Lance McClain’s manager was busy chatting away with the others, speaking of everything from the grandeur of the theatre to the vibrancy of the neighbourhood. He was the only person freaking out, here.

Keith closed his eyes and counted up to five and back down, scowling at his own nerves. He felt only marginally better when he disappeared into the wings to raise the curtain again, voices growing louder as the thick material lifted away. He was just tuning back into the conversation when he was started out of it with a thump. Three thumps, in fact. Somewhere behind him.

Keith frowned, moving further into the wings and upstage, towards backstage proper. His friends’ voices were deadened through the wall; replaced by a low electrical hum that he could never find the source of. And then, more thumps. Rapid ones, all from the backstage fire exit. After a quick mental check to make sure this wouldn’t set off the alarms and sprinklers, Keith pushed down on the release bar. He had to step back almost at once as a man in a baseball cap and green jacket wriggled round it, slamming it shut and talking non-stop.

“Holy Crow, finally! I thought I was stuck out there, dude! Aren’t fire exits supposed to be easy to open?” He snatched the hat from his head and ran a hand through his hair, smile brilliantly wide. “This is _The Castle of Lions_ , right? ‘Cos if it’s not, my manager is totally gonna kill me.”

Somehow, Lance McClain’s eyes were even bluer in real life.

It took Keith a moment to find his voice, the air in his chest having evacuated to somewhere north of his rib cage. Long enough for Lance’s head to cock ever-so-slightly to one side, waiting. “Yeah. This is _The Castle_. You’re backstage.”

“Cool.” Lance looked him over, ridiculously bright eyes darting like fish in a pool. Keith was suddenly grateful he’d thought to wear the jeans and t-shirt without holes. “And you are…?”

“Stage management,” Keith said, stupidly. Lance made it worse with a winning smile, cheeks lifting into little apples.

“Hi stage management. I’m Lance.”

Finger guns. Seriously? Lance McClain was doing finger guns at him?

“It’s Lance McClain,” he went on, totally unnecessarily, offering his hand. Keith gripped it without thinking, and was left staring after they’d let go, brain only just realising that Lance had soft skin. “Soooo…” Lance drawled, dragging Keith’s attention away from empty space and back onto his face. “Do you think you could show me the way, Mr Management?” He paused. “Get it?” he prompted, when Keith continued to stare. “ _Show_ me the way?” Keith opened his mouth, a gormless fish, and shut it again without speaking. “Nevermind,” Lance said. “Let’s just go, shall we? Please?”

Keith turned to lead on before he could embarrass himself further.

 

So, the emo guy wasn’t the talkative type. That was okay.

Lance’s smile didn’t waver as he followed him through a black painted maze. ‘Stage management’ was all in black too, practically disappearing but for his luminously pale skin. Kinda like a pretty vampire. If he was a couple of years younger, he could be cast in a teen supernatural romance movie. He led Lance out to the stage without tripping on the curtains or weights or coils of rope that seemed to be everywhere, apparently vampire enough to see in the dark.

Lance had to take a stop for a moment to appreciate the view.

He’d seen pictures of _The Castle of Lions_ , taken back in its heyday. In those, a hundred sparkling lights glittered off the chandelier; golden slivers gleaming on the backs and manes of rampant lions, silently roaring in relief patterns across the front of each balcony. The rows in the stalls and rising circles were a rich crimson velvet. He’d imagined voices turning hushed as the curtains drew back, a pool of yellow light on the stage; Alfor Altea addressing the crowd. He’d privately fantasised about stepping into that glow himself, warmth landing on his skin along with everyone’s eyes. Now he was here, on that stage, and there was no spotlight, no anticipation throbbing in the air. It was cool, and empty, and the lions were lit by electric ceiling lights, the chandelier dark.

He sucked in a breath, just the same.

“Lance!” He grinned when he saw Hunk; waving from a small huddle of people. “You made it! Did anyone see you?”

“No way buddy, I was out of there like Steve McQueen. Introduce me?”

“Right, right,” Hunk said, indicating the man beside him; tall and dark-haired but for a white streak, chiselled like Atlas. Lance followed the emo guy down some steps to stand in the audience with them. “This is Takashi Shirogane, the director.”

“I go by Shiro,” said the man, offering a metallic prosthetic hand. It was cool to the touch, too smooth to resemble flesh. “Pleased to have you in the cast, Mr McClain.”

“Call me Lance.” He turned, cocking his best smile and an eyebrow. “And this lovely lady must be Allura Altea. _Delighted_ to meet _you_.”

“Charmed,” the beauty said with some irony, tossing silvery hair back over her shoulder. “I’ll be playing opposite you.”

“Ha! Told you so.”

“Excuse me?” Allura asked, looking from the triumphant actor to his resigned agent.

“Sorry, an in-joke. I’m _really_ looking forward to it,” Lance said, taking her proffered hand and kissing it instead, winking at the wry amusement on her face. He straightened up before carrying on, reluctantly letting her take her hand back. “I, uh… well, this is embarrassing, but I’m a huge fan of your father’s.”

“So I’ve been told,” Allura replied, glancing over at the stage management dude. He was hovering behind a girl who was all glasses and hair, standing hardly taller than his belly.

“This is Katie, she’s the theatre technician,” Hunk introduced her.

“Katie or Pidge,” the girl responded. Her voice was quick, pointed like a blade. “Probably Pidge, thanks to my brother.”

“Your brother…?” Lance lifted his eyes to the man in black behind her.

“Woah, no. Keith’s not my brother. My brother’s Matt, but he’s not here.”

“Right. Nice to meet you, Katie and Keith. And last but not least?” he turned to the oldest person, a slenderish man with a bristling ginger moustache like something living on his face.

“Coran Heironimus Wimbleton Smythe.”

“Woah. Um, Alfor Altea’s agent, right?”

Coran beamed. “I was indeed.”

“Great, pleased to meet you. I’m Lance McClain.”

“Well _duh_ ,” said Katie, or Pidge. The others smiled, amused. Well, except that Keith guy. He was still hovering, pinkish stain high on his cheeks like someone had gone heavy with the blusher. Lance tried giving him a friendly wink to ease things over, but he froze up like he’d been spat at. Oh well.

“So, shall we get the _show_ on the road?” Lance asked, careful to emphasise the joke this time. Shiro smiled, benevolent.

“Glad you’re enthusiastic. We were just starting a read-through. We’ll go from the top.”

 

At some point, Keith forgot he was supposed to be taking notes.

It was so easy to get lost in it. The acting wasn’t perfect; couldn’t be so early, script still in hand, timing not yet perfected. But Lance and Allura were professionals; they were both familiar with the words, already developing their characters. Lance’s voice rose and fell with the frustrated passion of Blaytz, and Allura was just as involved. Before they were halfway through Keith’s pulse had picked up, just knowing that they had something here, something special.

Now if they could just make it happen before curtain-up.

It was a one act play, so they didn’t pause; pushing through the whole thing with an excited gleam in their eyes. In the later half the character’s affection for one another became more and more obvious, tension rising between them with every line. Pidge nudged Keith a few times when he forgot to breathe. Fortunately no one else noticed, not even Shiro; possibly because he was just as enthralled. He certainly looked pleased as he read out the final directions and ‘curtain closes’.

“That was great, guys. I’m glad you had time to study the script beforehand, Lance.”

“Of course,” Lance said, eyes bright. “You liked it then?”

Shiro nodded. “Obviously there’s a lot to work on, but I’d say that was a good start. We’ve got potential for some really great chemistry between you two.”

“I’ll say,” Lance said, wiggling his eyebrows in Allura’s direction. Privately, Keith agreed, because even rough around the edges he’d felt blood heating up in his neck.

“Let’s have a short break while I write up some notes,” Shiro suggested, and painted a bright smile on his face. “This would be a great time for Keith to show you around, Lance.”

Save him from his helpful friends.

Keith straightened out of his chair, very aware that the collective smirk of _Voltron Company_ was on him. “This way,” he said abruptly, turning and hoping Lance followed as he walked away. Some light comment by Pidge stung on his back.

Lance caught up before the auditorium doors closed behind him. He cracked the silence first.

“So… Keith. How long have you worked here?”

“Uh.” He needed to get a grip. Human speech shouldn’t be beyond him. “About five years now.”

“You’ve been stage manager the whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

“Huh.” Lance followed as Keith lead him down the stairs to the main lobby; a high, oval-shaped room where the windows stretched tall. The box office counter spanned the gap between the two sweeping, curved staircases. “So, I’m guessing you never had a chance to meet Alfor Altea himself, then?”

Of course. “I didn’t,” Keith said, accidentally too short. He took the edge off by offering; “Shiro did, though. When he started.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Alfor hired him to run the kids’ theatre course.”

Lance blew out air, coming to a stop in the middle of the expanse of scarlet carpet. “Wow. Kids theatre? Shiro really is kinda perfect, isn’t he?”

Keith couldn’t help but grin, knowing from years’ experience that Shiro farted like an orchestra’s brass section and mooned like a lovesick teenage girl. Loyalty compelled him not to mention it. “I guess.”

“Are him and Allura an item?”

“What?”

Lance raised his hands, fending off his look with a frown of his own. “Hey, no need to be like _that_ about it. I was just asking. Two beautiful people working together, you’ve got to wonder.”

Lance thought Shiro was beautiful? Not just Allura? “They’re not like that. _At all_.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Shiro is engaged.”

“Got it, my mistake.” Lance turned from him to look around, and Keith tried to iron out the knot in his forehead. Resting evil eye was not what he needed right now. “So this is the lobby.”

“Ah, yeah.” Keith gestured about himself, hands sweeping over the meticulously painted friezes; the lions the theatre was named for decorating every panel. “It’s all original. Alfor had it restored. You might like…” he pointed upwards, where long banners between the windows depicted the posters for Alfor’s plays. Lance followed his finger with his eyes; they shone with new azure light when they settled. Keith swallowed.

“Woah,” Lance said, turning on the spot to examine each in turn.

“We keep them up in his memory,” Keith added quietly, watching awe play across the tan features.

“They’re great,” Lance breathed. “Do you have other stuff of his?”

“Uh yeah. If we go this way…” Keith lead Lance behind the box office counter, through into Coran’s office.

…which was really untidy. Quiznak.

“That’s his,” Keith said quickly, snatching the trophy from the desk. Paper fluttered around his hand. He offered it to Lance, edging round to block out as much as the mess as possible. The actor looked reverent, lifting the trophy from Keith with care, holding it wide-eyed.

“ _Best Actor in an Original Production_ ,” he read off the inscription. “Awesome.” He looked up, all shiny, sculpted-cheek-boned enthusiasm. “What about his film awards? His Oscar?”

“Allura keeps them at home,” Keith said, catching the barest flash of disappointment before it was gone, gaze returned to the glass panel, thumb stroking lightly over the words.

“You should have it on display. All of this stuff. I bet his fans would love to come for a tour round Alfor Altea’s pet project.”

Keith frowned, taking the trophy back. He hesitated, searching for the right words. “He wanted to keep it running. As a working theatre, not a museum.”

Lance shrugged like it was obvious. “So do both. What’s next?”

“Um. You’ve seen the auditorium.”

Lance nodded, rolling his eyes a little. Keith bristled. “Okay, we’ll go into the basement. Where all the back-of-house stuff happens.”

Lance was fascinated as Keith took him through the rest; running his hands over the walls and sticking his head through every open door. He asked questions; spouted Alfor Altea facts whenever he could, and when they came to wardrobe Lance ran around the whole room, examining and exclaiming over every outfitted mannequin. Keith thought he was going to lose him between the rails, jumping when Lance reappeared beside him wearing a pirate hat. He pouted as Keith took it back.

After stopping by the dressing rooms, Keith led Lance through backstage, finally re-joining the others from stage left.

“There you are,” Shiro said, warm and knowing. “Thought we’d lost you two for a moment.” He eyeballed Keith. Keith looked carefully blank back, denying him the satisfaction.

“This place rocks,” Lance declared, hurrying forwards to claim a place beside Allura. “I had no idea it was so _big_ , you know?”

“There’s a lot the audience never sees,” Shiro agreed sagely. “Keith knows it better than anyone, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance’s look was cursory, unenthused. “So, what’s next, director? Wanna get this moving?”

“Not quite yet.” Shiro waved them all back into seats. Keith took up his script again, ignoring Pidge’s sidelong query. Shiro tapped at his own copy, then placed it aside. He looked at Lance and Allura, face unreadable. “Tell me about this play.”

“Uh…”

“No, really.” Shiro smiled. “Let’s talk about it. I want to know what you think.”

“It’s a romance,” Allura said, promptly. “Blaytz and Sanda echo the relationship between Antok and Vakala in the story.”

Shiro nodded. “Okay. So we have our setup; Blaytz and Sanda fall in love while reading the parts of the lovers. How do they feel about each other in the beginning?”

Lance took over. “He doesn’t like her. Blaytz, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not the type of person he’s looking for. She’s late, which is unprofessional,” he laughed off the hypocrisy with a wink and a smile around the group. “She’s cynical about the story. Basically, exactly what he doesn’t want.”

“And do you think that’s true?” Shiro prompted, leaning back on his hands. 

“Not quite?” Lance suggested. Keith could hear his considered frown in his tone. “I think… Blaytz is actually kind of interested in Sanda from the start. He’s a romantic. He wants to have some sort of of, I dunno, fated encounter type thing, just like in the book. But he doesn’t want to believe that Sanda is it.”

Shiro nodded, sincerely. “I agree with you. I think, subconsciously, Blaytz is desperate for a grand romance, worthy of a story; something different to the sensible relationship he has with his girlfriend Florona. Sanda isn’t what he imagines being that.”

“That’s deliberate, though,” Pidge said. Lance jumped, turning to look at her with surprise etched over his face. Allura smiled, amused.

“Voltron tends to work collaboratively, Lance. Everyone gets involved with discussions like these.” She nodded at Pidge, who looked balefully back. “Sanda does deliberately act cynical and disenfranchised at the start. I think she doesn’t want to frighten Blaytz off; afraid he’d run away in denial if she suddenly came out with how she feels.”

“You think Sanda starts off in love with Blaytz?” Shiro pressed.

“I think she starts off _wanting_ to be in love with Blaytz,” Allura answered. “And she ends up falling for him.”

“She’s basically more like her real self when she’s being Vakala,” Pidge continued. “At least at the start.”

“Lance?” Shiro prompted.

“Eh? No, yeah. Like they said.”

“Okay.” Shiro considered a moment. “This whole play depends on the changing relationship dynamic between Sanda and Blaytz. It underlines everything they do, even when they’re acting the parts of Antok and Vakala. The challenge for you two is to pull that off convincingly; give the audience something believable to invest in. We won’t get off the ground without it.”

“It’s make or break,” Coran put in.

“I’m sure we can come up with some believable chemistry,” Lance drawled, cocky smirk creeping back up his face. “What do you say, Allura? We’re gonna be spending a lot of time together, after all.”

 “We’ll all be together quite a bit,” Allura replied, sweetly. “Theatre work is intense, you know.”

“I’m ready for it,” Lance said, sultry tone lingering. He laughed, trying to be self-depreciating. His chest swelled nevertheless. “Can’t be as bad as my last movie, seriously. Or my next movie, I guess. It isn’t out yet.”

 _To Live Again_. A big action flick, release date to be confirmed. Keith had seen the on-set photos online. He’d looked good in them, too.

Damn. Damn it.

“I think we should start with a few exercises, something to work on the dynamic between the two of you,” Shiro went on, business-like. “Then we’ll see about blocking.”

“Uhm, actually?” Hunk spoke up, apologetic. “It’s getting to the point Lance and I need to leave.”

“Already?” Shiro looked from the actor to his agent, wringing his hands as he stood.

“We’re really sorry,” Hunk went on, limpid. “It’s another appointment, now was the only time we could work.”

“I see.” Behind the director, Allura folded her arms. Shiro frowned. “Is the rest of your schedule for the next couple of months so packed?”

“No, no. It’s really just today, then a couple of interviews and things later on…” Hunk mumbled, bustling out of the row. He accepted Lance’s script from his hand, tucking it into a messenger bag at his hip. His talent stood next to him, rubbing his hair. “It won’t be a problem, I promise. And today won’t happen again! You can expect us bang on time tomorrow.” He fluttered at the auditorium door. “Uh, could you maybe show us the back way out?”

“Keith?”

He nodded, leading Hunk and Lance back up onto the stage, apologetic glances thrown in every direction.

“Sorry,” Lance offered to Allura, going past. She unfolded her arms.

Keith lead them through back-of-house to the actual stage entrance, rather than the fire exit. Moments later they were off, disappeared into a blacked out car. Keith heading back out to the stage feeling wrung out, like an old dishcloth.

“Well,” said Pidge, when he returned alone. “At least when he’s here he’s decent.”

Shiro was conducting some sort of silent conversation with Coran with his eyes. “He is decent. He could be brilliant. I am concerned about his schedule, though.”

“As am I.” Allura huffed. She pulled a smile onto her face, one hip dropping as she turned on him. “So, Keith. What did you think of him?”

He honestly didn’t have an answer.

Seriously, finger guns?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I kinda rewrote a lot of Chapter One... *sweat drop*
> 
> I'm happier with it now. And have no fear, there's no need to reread (unless you really want to). All the essentials are the same: Keith is a Lance stan. Lance is Lance. Hunk is worried.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked THIS chapter! Every kudos, bookmark and comment makes my wee fannish heart burst, so a huge thankyou to all of you wonderful people. As ever you can also find me on twitter @DancingDowager and on tumblr, https://dancingdowager.tumblr.com/, though I'm usually more active on here.
> 
> Until next time, lovelies x


	3. Exercises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That Keith guy… doesn’t seem too keen to have me around.”

“Heeeyyyy…” Lance drawled, giving a lazy wave. “Good morning.”

The stage manager guy – Keith – hovered in the backstage entrance, once again funereal in all black, bangs and brows drawn down over his face like a ‘closed’ sign. “Hi,” he said, barely more than a grunt, and stepped back to allow Lance and then Hunk to join him inside. Hunk’s shoulders brushed the wall on both sides.

“At least I used a proper door today, right?” Lance opened, wriggling past. Keith sucked in a heavy breath as he brushed by his chest. “And I’m on time.”

He was met with a faint frown, a quick glance as his watch. “Almost,” Keith said, which was just plain _picky_. “The others are in.”

“Great,” said Lance, pushing ahead because the rest weren’t such hard work. “Better get going then.”

“Morning, Keith. Could I ask for a favour?” Hunk began hopefully. Lance looked back in time to see Keith raise his eyebrows at the larger man. Crammed in as they were, it looked oddly like he was having a conversation with an oncoming tube train. “Do you think I could borrow a quiet room for a bit? Preferably with wifi? I’m trying to find a more private place for us to stay and I need to make some calls and stuff,” Hunk explained.

“Want to borrow the office?”

“Only if you don’t mind,” Hunk gushed, all gratitude. “I don’t want to be in the way or anything. Seriously, you can stick me in a storeroom somewhere if that’s easier, as long as I have signal -”

“You won’t get a signal in the storerooms,” replied Keith, and Lance made a mental note to not let this dude leave his buddy off on his own anywhere, whatever Hunk said. “I’m sure Coran will be fine with it. He can help.”

“Thankyou!” Hunk beamed, and for a moment Lance could have sworn Keith’s mouth lifted towards a smile, but a moment later the pale man was facing him, and all trace of it was gone.

“Have you forgotten the way?”

“Of course not!” Lance retorted, spinning on his heel to lead them up and through the warren to the stage.

“Great, you’re here,” said Shiro when they escaped from the confusing tangle of black curtains. The theatre air was warm and dry and slightly stifling. He was dragging a pair of stools into place near the front, and hopped onto one. “Let’s get straight to it with some warmups.”

Allura smiled her hello and stretched before beginning to mutter tongue-twisters under her breath. Hunk left Lance with his script and water bottle, following Keith away. They passed by Katie, sitting cross-legged in cargo shorts in the orchestra pit, leaning over an open folder and stacks of coloured gels – squares of transparent plastic like flattened sweet wrappers. Lance waved at her, and got one in return before she held two up to the ceiling light; squinting as she gauged the shade of each. He watched her work while he ran through a few vocal exercises.

“Hey, Keith. Have you seen the three fifteens?”

The stage manager paused on his way back from auditorium doors. “Have you checked the freestanding lights?”

“No.” She answered the ensuing question on his face with a glare. “They’re too tall.”

Again, that mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “The steps are in dressing room two.”

“I know. They’re still too tall.” Her upturned chin dared him to comment on that. Apparently, Keith didn’t.

“I’ll check them at lunch.”

“Good.” Pidge nodded, picking up another set of gels. Keith joined them onstage while Lance finished up with some stretches, and took the other stool with far less grace than Shiro. He balanced a notepad on his knee.

“How about twenty questions?” The director suggested.

“Good idea,” Allura agreed, nodding. She sank from where she stood to sit comfortably. Lance followed her lead and joined her on the boards, puzzled. “You must know twenty questions,” Allura said, when he turned that look on her.

“Yeah, but I’ve never used it for work before.”

“Give it a go,” Shiro urged. “We need to establish a rapport between the two of you.”

“Right, okay.” Hey, if they wanted him to get to know this beautiful lady, he wasn’t gonna say no. He took a breath, relaxing. “So, Allura… where does that name come from?”

They covered the usual things. Age, place of birth, favourite foods… regular stuff. ‘How did you get into acting’ was a more interesting topic, when Allura told him about playing make-believe with her father. He told her about his siblings, her eyes widening as he reeled off the complete list of names. She laughed when he told her about wearing all the hand-me-downs. Including his sisters’.

“What’s next…” he thought aloud, inching closer to more personal territory under the watchful eyes of director and stage manager. “Then… are you single?”

“Yes,” she answered, leaning comfortably back on her hands. “And I know you are.”

“Oh you do?” he purred, propping up his chin.

She laughed, giving him an unimpressed look. “If you weren’t _everybody_ would know about it. One way or another.” She glanced at the men on the stools, where Keith sat stiff and Shiro smiled.

“Huh.” He rubbed his hair. It was getting slightly sticky from the heat. “Guess I can’t really argue with that. Not while there are paparazzi literally camping outside my hotel right now.”

“Are they hounding you?” Keith asked, cutting in. Lance looked up at where Keith was scowling at him, pencil resting against the page where he’d been taking notes.

“No more than usual,” he replied, surprised. “Nothing me and Hunk can’t manage.”

“Right.” He ducked his head back to the notebook.

“Uh… yeah. So anyway, yes I’m single,” Lance went on, turning from the falling dark hair back to Allura’s face, amusement written on the set of her lips. “Is it my question or yours?”

“Mine.” Allura considered, silver curls moving gently as she cocked her head slightly. “Do you _want_ to be single?” she asked, finally.

“Aw come on, does anyone want to be single?”

“I do,” Katie called from the pit, hidden from view.

“Point taken,” Lance called back. He took the time to pick his words. “I suppose you could call me a romantic. No, I don’t particularly want to be single. But I don’t want to rush into a relationship just for the sake of having one, you know? It’s got to be someone I really like.” He shrugged, careful to keep it casual. “Perhaps you think that’s old fashioned.”

“No, I think it’s sensible.” Allura answered, warmly. Her eyes darted away. “Still...” she added, suggestive. “I guess you don’t want to miss out on a chance, either. If someone were to ask…”

“Miss Altea, are you asking me out?” He asked, batting his lashes. “ ‘Cos I’ve got an appointment tonight, but if you’re free tomorrow -”

“Nice try,” Allura cut him off. “It wasn’t me I was thinking of. Like Pidge, I _do_ want to be single. At the moment.”

“Why?” he asked, unable to help himself. “If you don’t mind me asking!” he added hurriedly, feeling the way Keith and Shiro tensed up in their chairs. Not that Keith wasn’t tense already. The guy was edgier than a dodecahedron going through a phase.

It was her turn to shrug, face mostly unreadable. “It’s just what I need right now.”

What did you say to that? Fair enough? The pause sat awkwardly until Keith interrupted.

“That was twenty,” he said.

Shiro nodded. “Alright, great.” He smiled at the pair of them. “You’ve had a chance to learn something about each other. I usually find breaking the ice this way makes it easier to build a relationship between their characters. Reckon you can get some good chemistry going?”

“Oh it’ll be a pleasure,” Lance said, winking at Allura.

“I think we’ll manage,” she agreed.

“Okay. Now, I want you to think about your characters for a moment.” Allura shut her eyes; Shiro spoke in an earnest, clear tone. “You are Sanda. You’re a young actress; you’ve seen a few of Blaytz’ plays and you love them. You are desperate to meet the man himself, and this is your chance.” He turned to Lance, and he found his eyes slipping shut too. “Blaytz, this is your passion project. You want to see this grand romance come to life on stage, maybe you’re hoping it will make up for the lack of one in your own life. This actress has just turned up to audition, late.” He let them think on it, and Lance kept his eyes closed. “Don’t worry about nailing these characters straight away,” Shiro went on, soft. “We can develop and define as we go. Now is the time to try things out, experiment.” He paused, gave them time to nod. Or at least Lance assumed Allura was nodding too. When Shiro spoke again, his voice had returned to its normal pitch. “Okay, we’re going to do the same twenty questions again,” he said. “Only this time, you’re going to answer them as Blaytz and Sanda. Ready?”

“Ready,” they replied, and both their voices had changed, moving closer to the accents of the two characters.

Keith lifted his notepad. “Sanda. Where does that name come from?”

“It’s a real name and my stage name,” Sanda replied, considering. “My parents got it from a book. No – a poem. It’s the name of a heroine from some old poem. They’re romantics too, but focussed on the past.”

“You said ‘too’,” Shiro prompted.

“I’m definitely a romantic,” Sanda confirmed, firmly. “I’ve built up this image in my head of this handsome, wonderful playwright and I want it to be true. I’m desperately pretending not to be a romantic so I don’t scare him off, or have to admit to myself it’s foolish.”

Keith spoke to him next. “Blaytz. When were you born, how old are you?”

“Older than Sanda,” he answered, looking at her for confirmation. “A bit older than me, too. Twenty-seven? Yeah, I’m twenty-seven, turning twenty-eight. Old enough that people around me are thinking about settling down. Old enough that I’m starting to feel that this play might be my last chance at romance. Not a mid-life crisis or anything -”

“At twenty-seven? I hope not,” said Shiro, grinning. Lance flashed one back.

“- but yeah. I guess I’m starting to feel trapped.”

More questions. Lance learned that Sanda was afraid of being mute and ignored, that she loved seafood, and decided that Blaytz was particular about keeping his house clean. Shiro asked additional questions sometimes, squeezing more answers out of them, building on throwaway comments.

“Are you single?” Keith asked at last.

“Yes,” said Sanda, easily. “But not for lack of offers. I’m looking for someone who really understands me.”

“Are you hoping that person will be Blaytz?” Shiro put in.

“Definitely. It’s why I came.”

“Blaytz, what about you? Are you single?”

“I have a girlfriend called Florona.”

“Tell us about her.”

He combed through the script in his head. “We live together. Probably heading towards marriage. She’s a banker. Practical. Sensible.”

“Do you think Blaytz loves her?”

“I… no. No, I think he wants to love her. He’s comfortable with her. She’s capable and beautiful and everything he wanted his partner to be, but he just doesn’t quite love her.” He pulled a face. “Geez. I’m – Blaytz – is being kind of awful to her.”

“Does he feel guilty?”

“Probably not. In my own mind, it’s all justified. Until Sanda comes along.”

“What then?”

“Then he feels guilty. He realises that this is what it should be like – what he’s been denying her.”

Shiro nodded, turning back to Keith, who glanced back at his pad.

“The last question was if you want to be single.”

“I’d rather be single than with have a shallow relationship,” Sanda answered, at once. Blaytz grimaced.

“I wouldn’t. I’d rather appear to have it all, even if it was shallow. Hence Florona.”

“Okay, one more,” Shiro said, leaning over on his stool and putting elbows to his knees. He pronounced the words carefully, clearly. “Have you ever been heartbroken?”

Lance considered for Blaytz. “I… don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone enough.”

“Yes,” Sanda answered, grimly. “Once, when very young. I’m terrified of it happening again.”

“And that,” Shiro said, pleased, “is going to form the backbone of the relationship we see on stage. Bear it in mind, guys. This is all good work.” He took to his feet, offering a hand to Allura first, then Lance. He tried not to envy the easy bulge of the Altas biceps as he was hauled upright. “Okay, shake out. Let’s get some interaction going.”

 

 

By lunch time, Lance was ready to admit Allura was right. Theatre work was intense. The late July weather seeped into the building, not too hot for his Cuban blood but airless. He’d have preferred the kiss of sun over the still black and velvet atmosphere of the theatre.

He took a breather while Shiro talked over something with Allura, scooping up his water bottle for the third time and taking another long drink; skin prickling as grey-violet eyes tracked the movement. And Lance was used to being looked at, stared at even, but this? This was getting annoying.

Whatever he’d done to tick Keith off, he was starting to wish he’d done harder.

Lance shook his bottle, disappointed to find it nearly empty. He’d have to ask Hunk to refill it, but his manager wasn’t back yet. Probably still in the middle of wrangling privacy agreements out of prospective landlords. He set it aside, and turned back into the exercise pretending he didn’t feel the heavy stare on his nape.

“Alright guys, you’ve made great progress. I want you to focus on the mutual attraction a little more. What draws Blaytz to Sanda?”

“I mean, you _can_ see her, right?” Lance quipped, eyebrow lifting as he indicated Allura with an exaggerated gesture.

“In character. Not the superficial. What does Blaytz see in Sanda that he finds attractive?”

He took a deep breath, finding the beginnings of Blaytz inside himself again. “Her passion. I think Blaytz envies people who feel things so strongly. Maybe even the fact that she’s a little reckless… he’s probably impressed by people who act on their feelings so openly, like he’s afraid to.”

“I think we’re all afraid of that sometimes,” Shiro said, with wry encouragement. “That might be a useful touch point to build the character around.”

“Yeah, I thought that,” Lance agreed. “And uh… he’s a little arrogant? I think he’s into the fact Sanda seems to think the world of him. Like… he wants to be seen as flawless, a little?”

“Interesting take,” Shiro said, “I like it. Allura, what about Sanda? Does she think Blaytz is flawless?”

“I doubt it,” Allura answered, flashing Lance a smile. A gorgeous smile, he might add. “She must realise he’s got an ego. I think she actually finds it oddly endearing.”

“Awww, Allura. I know you’d come round,” he crooned, making her laugh. Behind him, he could have sworn the glaring intensified.

“Okay, keeping it up -” Shiro broke off when the auditorium door swung open, Coran’s head sticking through.

“Sorry, Shiro,” called the older man. “We’ve got a potential future sponsor on the phone and he won't rest until he’s had a word.”

“I’ll be right there,” Shiro said, kindly. He stepped back, considering. “I tell you what,” he suggested, “why don’t the two of you go down to the prop store and come back with one thing you think your character would own. Anything. Tell us why afterwards. Keith, is it open?”

In the audience, the scowling man nodded, half on his feet. Pidge, who was sitting next to him, didn’t even look up to call:

“Mess it up in there and Keith might kill you.”

“I wouldn’t -!”

Lance didn’t wait to hear Keith’s arguments. He followed Allura back through the blacks – seriously, did theatre people see in the dark or something? Did they all have magical trip hazard sensing eyes? – and down into the blessedly cool but stagnant air of the basement.

The prop store was a large, cube-shaped room with a high ceiling. It took a moment for the fluorescents to come on with a crackle and buzz, showering light over towering racks lining the walls. Hand written labels were peeling off the drilled metal. Larger pieces cluttered the floor, draped under sheets or stacked. Privately, Lance thought he could make a mess and nobody would notice. Someone could probably live down here and nobody would notice.

“Right,” said Allura, eyes darting around the room. “Let’s have a look…” she disappeared along a shelf, an elegant hand running its length, crackling over the old paper of the labels. Not sure where else to start, Lance followed her. She stopped at a particular box, pulling it out for a rummage, the contents clattering together like a bagful of cutlery.

“So, Allura…” Lance turned to examine the rack himself, remaining artfully casual as he tried to catch her eye with the corner of his own. “How long have you guys worked together?”

“Hmm?” Allura looked up, silver locks falling away from her face. “Oh. About five years now, with the present members. Pidge – sorry, Katie – joined us three years ago.”

“And you’re the only actress?”

“At the moment,” she said, unconcerned, apparently giving up on that box and routing through the shelves themselves. “We bring in others for specific shows, but we don’t ask everyone to join. And they don’t always want to.”

Well, maybe if captain glowering emo didn’t seem to want to scare everyone away…

“Oh yeah?” he draped himself against the shelving. Blaytz wouldn’t be interested in a carpet anyway. “Why’s that?”

“That’s how the work is,” she said, not looking. “It’s not that different from film that way. You’ve got to be able to move around. We’re about the only resident company left.”

“That’s… kinda sad.”

She paused, elbow deep in the shelving. “I guess so. But it’s also part of what makes Voltron special. You don’t get teams like this anywhere else.”

Lance scratched his head, shifting down a few places to look into another dusty box. It was full of wooden bowls. “You’re all pretty good friends then?”

“Family,” Allura said softly, and she looked particularly lovely. Lance sucked in a breath.

“Wow. Yeah. You don’t get that in film so much.”

“The shoots are just too short,” Allura observed, heading off deeper into the tangle. Again, he followed.

“Is that what made you stop doing film?” he asked. She frowned, finally turning to him.

“You knew I’d done films?”

“I’ve seen them,” he confessed. “I just wondered…”

“I fell in love with the stage,” Allura said, smiling. “Just like my Father, you could say.”

“I’d have loved to have met him,” Lance said, earnest. Her smile dipped at the edges, turning that kind of sad that is almost wistful, like the pain has passed into a memory of old hurt you want to keep. 

“Yes, you would,” she said. “Everybody did.” Abruptly, she turned away. “I swear we had a basket of children’s toys somewhere.”

“I’ll help you look,” he offered, hurrying past her to scan the next row. “You _Voltron_ guys must have worked together on some pretty cool stuff, then?”

“You have no idea,” she murmured. She looked around an antique dressmakers form to look at him. “Lance, I know I said that we don’t ask everyone to join _Voltron Company_ , but while you’re with us you are part of our team. We don’t want you to feel left out.”

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” he said, waving. “But like, are you sure? I’m getting some… weird vibes.”

“Oh?” She pressed, stepping around the form.

Lance hesitated. They were friends. She might be offended. He might be about to upset this very beautiful woman who he very much wanted to like him, thankyou. But curiosity won. “That Keith guy… doesn’t seem too keen to have me around.”

“What?” Allura demanded, mouth falling open in apparent flabbergastment. Flabbergastment? Was that even a word? Lance decided it ought to be. “Sorry,” Allura said, hurriedly recovering her composure. “I was just… surprised. What makes you say that?”

“He keeps glaring at me? The whole time?”

“What? Oh.” Allura shook her head. “Keith isn’t glaring at you. He’s just nervous. Around strangers,” she added, quickly. “It takes him a while to warm up to people.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Positive_ ,” Allura said, with wide eyes and laden emphasis.

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

Yeah, right.

She seemed to read his thoughts, and reached out to pat his shoulder a bit too heavily. “Lance, I can _absolutely promise_ that Keith is not unhappy that you’re here,” she said firmly, sweet smile a little too rigid. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, bewildered. She smiled more naturally as she stepped back, turning deeper into the tangle of racking and knick-knacks.

“You guys probably just need to spend some time together,” she suggested, voice muffled behind the layers of just... _stuff_. Her head popped up to grin at him over a pile of lampshades. “Maybe you guys should be playing twenty questions.”

“Huh, yeah,” Lance agreed weakly, half-heartedly turning to root through a drawer. Perhaps he could start by asking what Keith’s problem was.

 

 

“What do you mean, he’s left?” Keith demanded. Shiro sighed, settling further into his chair. Coran cast a quick look from the other side of the room, eyes going back to his decrepit old computer as it wheezed through spreadsheets. Keith folded his arms, looking down at his friend.

“Lance left about half an hour ago,” Shiro explained. “Another appointment, apparently.”

“His manager said there wouldn’t be any more.”

“Something came up yesterday, it seems.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is… concerning,” Shiro agreed, helplessly. He tapped his flesh fingers on his desk. Papers and resource books covered the surface, passages circled and his Dictaphone lying close to hand. “I know it’s only the second day, but our schedule is tight. I don’t know if Lance and Hunk are aware of how much rehearsal time we’re actually going to need.”

Keith clamped his arms to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Keith, why are you apologising?” Shiro pointed out, fairly. “We knew Lance was likely to have other commitments. This isn’t a problem – yet. I’ll just have a word with Hunk before it becomes one.”

“If I hadn’t talked about him -”

“Keith, none of this is your fault,” Shiro insisted. Coran made an affirmative noise in the background. “There’s no reason to panic. I’ll sort this out, and I know you’ve got the technical side of things covered. It’ll be ok.” Shiro peered up at him, expression turning soft. “How are you finding it? Working with him?”

His fingernails bit into his arm momentarily. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.”

“Not what you thought, huh?” Shiro said, unbearable understanding on his face.

“It’s not that,” Keith insisted, quick. His grip tightened. “I don’t want anyone making a big deal of it. Like when Allura was saying about someone other than her asking him out. I don’t want that.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean -”

“I _know_ she didn’t,” Keith cut him off. Coran was watching, having perked up as he always did when he heard Allura’s name. “I know she was joking. I just didn’t like it.”

“Hmm.” Shiro considered, soft look never easing up. “You would rather Lance didn’t know you’re a fan?”

“ _Yes_.” He uncrossed his arms, relieved. “I know it’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t. I promise he won’t hear it from me. And I’m sure we can tone down on the teasing a bit too,” Shiro said lightly. “Better?”

“I’m not a kid, Shiro.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to coddle me.”

“I know. Trust me.”

“You’re doing that understanding big-brother look again. Like I’m so much younger than you are.”

“Am I?”

Keith snorted. “Seriously, why does Adam put up with you?”

“I ask myself that all the time,” Shiro admitted, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for reading! It's been a really rough couple of days, so I'm sorry if there are more mistakes than usual. I'll get them fixed for the next update.
> 
> Poor Keith is being misunderstood... but don't worry, this clueless pair will be getting lots of chances to work each other out ;)
> 
> I'm always ready to chat, or listen, or hear your thoughts and suggestions. You can find me on twitter @DancingDowager and on tumblr at https://dancingdowager.tumblr.com/ though I'm most active on here. 
> 
> Thanks again, and take care of yourselves x


	4. Blocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I get it. I see how it is.”  
> “Hunk, no.”  
> “No?”  
> “No.”

The last few days of June were spitefully hot. In the streets around _The Castle_ flustered, red-shouldered people crowded under parasols to sip at tall drinks and reapply sun-cream. Inside, amidst the gleaming circles and velvet, the air was turgid and smothering. Keith dragged a few fans out of airless storage rooms and set them up around the theatre, but it didn’t help much. Coran retreated to the cooler public spaces, Shiro shed his button-down in favour of a vest top - pink scratch marks scoring the muscle around his prosthetic - and Pidge was positively grizzly. She snatched a lacy Victorian fan from the prop store and glared at him when she returned and flopped down onto the aisle steps, fluttering it like a debutante at a ball.  

“How can you stand wearing that?” she demanded, waving at his black t-shirt and jeans, the heavy bike boots.

“Used to it. Can’t wear shorts on the bike.”

“I feel hotter just looking at you.”

Truthfully, he was suffering too. He’d placed most of the electric fans around the stage, where Shiro, Allura and Lance McClain were blocking out scenes, and he felt like he was stewing in the still heat. He dragged his hair into a ponytail, scraping damp strands away from his sticky neck and tying it with an elastic Allura had offered him. She had pulled her own silver waves into a messy bun, exposing a long curve of skin down her neck to her off-shoulder crop top, paired with running shorts. She certainly looked less bothered by the heat than the rest of them, and Lance McClain’s eyes had just about popped out.

Lance had joked about the temperature; brushing it off as nothing compared to Cuban summer; but Keith could tell he was feeling it. His glowing skin had picked up a damp shine; a bright line on his cheekbones and brow. His hair was softly curling at the ends, and the t-shirt he was wearing clung to his collar bones and upper back, revealing the sharp lines of his shoulder blades. It showed off his swimmer’s build; wide shoulders narrowing to a trim waist and his probably designer shorts. The crease of his hip bones poked out the top, very visible from Keith’s position in the front row. He swallowed around a dry mouth.

Concentrate.

There wasn’t a huge amount of other stuff for him to do. The script across his lap was already marked up, a props list written. A scatter of loose paper was covered in circles, a plan view of the set and the spots doodled on. Early days. Pidge occasionally made a note of her own, but seemed content to idly watch.

And well, if _she_ was watching…

 

 

Lance’s skin was prickling under his sweat.

Seriously, where did that Keith guy get off on all the glaring? He’d looked like thunder the moment Lance arrived – _on time_ , despite the lingering paparazzi – and halfway through the morning, he still couldn’t give him a break. Lance had drained his water bottle, worked out a couple of tricky areas with Allura and lost count of the number of times he’d paced that one bit for Shiro, and still Keith’s eyes were following him around like a pair of violet homing missiles. _Violet_. Who had purple eyes? Since when was that a thing in real life?

Lance seized an opportunity to meet them with an eyebrow raised, just so Keith would know he was on to him. The stage manager turned sharply aside, exposing a jawline you could cut yourself on and an embarrassed flush, blooming bright on his marble complexion. He looked back a moment later, and finding Lance’s frown waiting for him, he got to his feet and clambered onto the stage, melting into the darkness between the heavy black curtains. Lance sniffed, focusing once more on Shiro’s instructions.

The director was exacting, and they went on for another hour to reach the end before he called a halt.

“Let’s have a break,” he suggested, skimming his forehead before raking his nails over the metallic cuff of his prosthetic arm. Allura batted his hand away, frowning.

“Stop that.”

“It itches,” Shiro said ruefully.

“You’ll make it sore.”

“But… it itches…”

Lance ducked out of the squabble, grabbing his water bottle. He frowned when he felt the weight in his hand, confused.

“I refilled it.”

Lance looked up and then down at Keith, who was standing on the thick carpet in front of the stage. His face seemed narrower with his hair pulled back, and it wasn’t a bad look on him. “Oh,” Lance said, intelligently. Then: “Thanks.”

“It’s just tap water though,” Keith said, shrugging. Annoyingly, now he wouldn’t look at all, preferring to address his comments somewhere past Lance’s right ear.

“That’s fine.” Dude must think he was a diva. Keith nodded once, curtly, and then raised his voice a little for the benefit of the others.

“There’s leftover ice-cream if you want it.”

Allura actually shone, turning away from Shiro. He scratched, furtively. “Great! Any strawberry?”

“Dibs on the mint chocolate chip!” snapped Katie, springing from the stairs to the doors. Shiro chuckled as he descended from the stage, nodding at the other dark-haired man.

“Nice thought, Keith.”

Keith merely shrugged again, bulk shifting under his black tee, and fell in with the director.

_The Castle of Lions_ bar was a spacious, carpeted affair blessed with proper air-conditioning. Pouncing lions stood golden on either end of a polished marble countertop; roaring on the panels. It was flanked by towering cabinets and a pristine mirror; reflecting a glittering array of glassware and spirit bottles in neat procession. Keith and Shiro handed out cardboard pots from the freezer, and then Keith darted off to fetch Coran and Hunk.

They assembled around one of the high tables; Katie had to jump to get up onto one of the stools. Allura hopped up to join her and flashed a smile at him. “Nice work today. How are you finding it?”

“Oh it’s great, great,” he said, peeling back the lid on creamy vanilla. “Feels good to be moving around, you know?”

“Uh-hmm,” Allura agreed. Or it could be her reaction to the ice-cream; she licked the lid. “I like blocking. I find creating the character much easier once I have an image of how the play works physically. Hey guys.”

“Hi,” Hunk greeted her, moving to join them. Coran followed, and Keith slipped back behind the bar and returned with more ice cream for the three of them. Hunk selected chocolate, and hummed contentedly around the flat plastic spoon before he went on. “Mmm. Right, I have good news. I think I’ve found us an apartment.”

“Oh, nice.”

“That was quick,” Pidge observed. She swiped a green stain from the corner of her mouth with her wrist. “Where is it?”

“Uh, west of here? Silverside?”

“Nice area,” Shiro said, approving. Lance swallowed around the chill sweetness in his mouth.

“Is there a -”

“- Sorry, no pool,” Hunk finished. “But it does have a private access and pretty tight security, and the owner says we can move in as soon as we like.” He looked at his friend for approval, smiling. “I’ve booked in to see it tonight. If you like it, we could be in by Friday.”

“Okay, sounds good. Thanks man.”

“You should have a house-warming,” Allura suggested with a smile, spoon pressed against her lip.

“Allura, you are always welcome,” he purred, returning one.

“Yeah, we’re coming too,” Pidge said, taking the sting out of it with a smile of her own. “I still want those shortbread cookie things.”

Hunk laughed, eyes crinkling up with his flattered smile, honey-warm. “I’ll make you some extra,” he offered. “In fact, I can cook for everyone! Fancy dinner with us on Saturday? Six-ish? If everything goes smoothly,” he added hurriedly, glancing at his talent and friend.

“We’d love to,” Shiro accepted, sincerely. Allura and Pidge nodded enthusiastically as well, and Coran declared his delight. Keith scowled at the table-top.

Lance dug into his ice-cream; little contented noises echoed from around the table. “So, you’re all joining us?” he prompted, casually.

Pidge’s face scrunched up. “Matt might not be well enough.”

“Oh, is he still feeling rough?” Allura asked, sympathetic. Pidge nodded, mouth turning to a grimace.

“Yeah. It’s not even funny teasing him about it anymore.”

“Poor guy,” Lance offered. Keith hadn’t stopped frowning like strawberry ice cream offended him on a personal level. “But the rest of you can make it?”

“Indubitably,” Coran replied, cheery. “I may even bring my guitar.”

Allura’s smile took on a slightly stiff quality.

“What should we bring?” Shiro asked.

“No no no no no, nothing at all,” Hunk gushed. “I’ve got this. Really. My pleasure. Only this place is kinda out of the way, so I’ll probably book you some taxis? How does that sound?”

“I can handle that,” Coran offered, grandly. “Thankyou for the invitation, Hunk, Lance.”

“You’re welcome,” Lance replied. Keith still hadn’t really moved, so Lance gave him up, turning to nudge Shiro. Who was still making sneaky attempts to scratch. He jumped, aborting the manoeuvre, and Allura rolled her eyes and made a smacking motion at the guilty hand. “So what’s next, Mr Director?”

He grinned, holding his hands up in supplication to Allura. “Reckon you can remember the whole thing from the start?”

After two more run-throughs, he certainly could.

 

 

“Keith.” Krolia paused in the doorway, tall and smart, her neat briefcase tight in one hand. “I didn’t expect you.”

Keith was sitting at the counter, leaning over his sketches and a protein-shake, wet hair soaking through the back of his fresh t-shirt. “We finished early,” he said, clipped. Too clipped. He made an effort to lift his head, look his mother in the eye. “Uh. Welcome home.”

“Thankyou.” Krolia smiled, warming as the late afternoon. Outside, the light was turning golden from white, a bare breeze finally starting up. He could hear the rush-hour traffic through the open windows; the occasional sound of the blinds. Krolia moved into the room, beginning the process of shedding work. Her shoes and briefcase were tucked away into their regular places. “Is the play going well? It’s unlike Shiro to finish early. Or is Adam back?”

“Not yet,” Keith supplied. “It’s… going fine.”

“Is it?” Her tone was free of accusation, but like she knew. She always seemed to. Did all mothers?

“Yeah.” He knew that if he left it at that, she wouldn’t ask. He went on anyway. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” she repeated, calm. She drew a tall glass of water for herself, approaching the counter and mutely asking for permission to look at his drawings. He slid them over, and her fingertips gently traced the pencil lines.

“It’s the actor. He keeps leaving early.”

Krolia didn’t comment, taking a moment to read his face before returning to the sketched designs. She traced the shapes with her eyes. Keith pressed on to fill the quiet, to stop his teeth from clenching together.

“I guess… I guess I’m just worried he’s not taking it seriously.”

“I see.” Krolia studied him, impassive. “This is someone the company has brought in?”

It was the guy on his wall. Keith couldn’t say it; too weird. “Yeah.”

“A professional?”

Award-winning. “Yes.”

Krolia considered, condensation turning to drips on her glass. She was wearing perfume, Keith realised; something soft and floral. He wondered if she always had. “What does Shiro think?” she asked, eventually.

Keith frowned. When Hunk and Lance left, in a flurry of profuse apologies from Hunk and a few embarrassed ones from Lance – mostly aimed at Allura and the director – he and Shiro decided to hit the gym. Keith worked his frustration out on a punch bag for a while before they sparred, and Shiro took pains – and a few kicks he could have dodged – to assure Keith that he would sort things out. He’d speak to Lance, he’d speak to Hunk. And Keith knew he would; knew that Shiro was the best choice for a delicate reprimand; a better choice than Keith with all his blunt stammering and inarticulate anger. He’d barely been able to say goodbye today; too pent up and too untrusting to open his own mouth.

Getting caught checking Lance out hadn’t helped.

“He’s handling it,” Keith summarised.  Krolia took it with a nod.

“Good. I’m sure he won’t let things get out of hand.” She paused again, then ventured to tap on his design. “What are these?”

“That’s a rough lighting plan. I’ll have to go over it with Pidge, first.”

“Pidge is Katie’s nickname, yes?” Krolia checked.

“Yeah.”

“You said her brother was sick.”

“Still is.”

“You should be careful yourself,” she said, with a quick glance as though to assess his state of health. Which was warm and slightly sweaty, mostly. “What do the numbers mean?”

“What – oh. They’re the codes for the gels. The colour filters for the lights.”

“I see.” She straightened up, her full height close to his own. Something else in common. “Is he worth it?”

“What?”

“Sorry. The actor. It’s bothering you. Is he worth it?”

It was Keith’s turn to hesitate; a wealth of Lance McClain material not fifteen feet away bringing colour back into his face. He wondered if the easy blushing thing was from his mother too; he’d never seen her do it. “He’s good.” Brilliant. Gifted. “Very good.” His Mom met his eyes. “ _Really_ good. Just absent.”

“Hm. I hope that changes,” she responded, carefully. The word hung between them. In the street below, a bike engine roared to life, and the moment broke. Krolia tapped his drawings once more, pushing them gently back across the counter top. “Would you like to eat dinner together?” she asked, deliberately neutral, as though proposing a business transaction. “I can cook.”

He swallowed, fingers tightening around his shake. “Yeah. Yeah, please. I’ll help. I mean – we can cook. Together.”

Another smile, all the heat of the month behind it. The growling engine faded into the distance, leaving bird song in its wake. “Thankyou, Keith. I’d like that.”

 

 

As the afternoon became a golden yellow evening, Lance stretched himself out on the sumptuous couch of the hotel suite; shirtless to enjoy the breeze across his citrus scented, freshly washed skin. The lingering scents of sweat and antiseptic had been swept away, leaving him boneless and relaxed. On his back, he held the paperwork for the new apartment above him, scanning through the technical bits. In the nearby chair, Hunk sat with his notebook, muttering to himself and scribbling as he flicked through cooking channels.

“Checks out,” Lance said, turning a page.

“I thought you’d like the big bath,” Hunk offered, not taking his eyes off a frangipane. Lance grinned, turning his head against the soft upholstery.

“And you like the kitchen, right?”

“It’s a good kitchen,” Hunk whined, defensive. “I want to make tarts. And I can do garlic knots!”

“Told ya’ you should have been a chef.”

“Nah,” said Hunk lazily, a fond smile lifting his cheeks as he looked back at his lounging friend. “This is cool.”

Lance grinned his gratitude, knowing Hunk would see it. They broke the moment at the same time, Hunk turning back to the delicacies of pastry while Lance perused further through the paperwork. His eyebrow lifted.

“It’s ‘ _extensively sound-proofed throughout_ ’? What the heck?”

“Oh yeah,” Hunk said, focussed on the tv once more. “Apparently the owner liked to entertain a lot.”

Lance sniggered. Sure, the place was set up for it; giant gleaming kitchen island, sunken conversation pit, impressive speaker system and stereo; but he couldn’t help but wonder. Or pass up on an opportunity to tease Hunk. “Sure. _That’s_ what that’s about.”

He glanced over, found Hunk studiously watching the posed shots of elegant desserts.

“Hunk.”

“Don’t go there, Lance.”

“Extensively sound-proofed _throughout_ , Hunk.”

“Lance.”

“That includes bedrooms, right? You know what that means.”

“Nope,” Hunk declared primly. He turned to a fresh page in his notebook, flicked the channel over. “Nope, I have no idea. All I know is that this place is private and has a great kitchen, and I have chocolate shortbread to make.”

“Come on.” Lance rolled off the sofa, crawling over to Hunk’s chair with a smirk. “Sound-proof bedrooms? Big Jacuzzi bath? You know what kind of parties this guy was having.”

“No, no I don’t,” Hunk insisted. He tore his eyes away from salad to pout, exasperated, at his friend. “Why do you have to do this? Why can’t we just have a nice house-warming party with everyone without having to wonder what’s happened there before?”

Lance chuckled, sitting up onto his knees and backing off. “Chill. I’m sure it’s all innocent really. Honest.”

“But now the thought is there,” Hunk complained, and Lance cackled as he threw himself back down on the sofa, plush cushions yielding with a _whumph_. “You’re awful, man.”

“But you love me,” Lance responded, triumphantly producing the remote he’d stolen. He scoured through channels until he came upon a noisy car chase, and dumped it on his exposed belly. “Sorry. I won’t say anything about it on Saturday.”

“Good,” Hunk mumbled, settling back into his chair and looking over his notebook.

“I don’t think mullet-man will show, though.”

 Hunk blinked, brow creasing. “Who?”

“Keith, dude! Keith!” Lance said, wide-eyed. “You know I wouldn’t let anyone else I know run around with a haircut like that.”

Hunk put down his notebook, confused. “Okay? His hair really isn’t that bad. Kind of suits him. But why do you think he won’t come?”

“Just don’t.” On-screen, a car burst through a pile of boxes, eighties fashion. Lance kinda regretted never getting to do that.

Hunk was chewing his lip, telly ignored now. “Everyone said they could make it.”

“Mullet-man didn’t.”

“He didn’t say he _couldn’t_ ,” Hunk pointed out, fairly. He frowned, leaning forward in his chair to study Lance’s face. “Not to me, anyway. Did he say something to you?”

“As little as possible,” Lance said, dryly. The plucky driver raced blindly up a wrong-turn, music swelling into dramatic suspense. This was a real B-movie.

“Huh?” Hunk hauled himself from the chair, moving to tower over the settee. “You don’t like him,” he accused, eyes narrowing in mahogany suspicion. “You don’t want him to come.”

“Hey, it’s not that _I_ don’t like _him_ ,” Lance protested, forgetting the film. “ _He_ doesn’t like _me_!”

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody! It’s obvious!”

“I haven’t noticed anything.”

“You’ve been in the office.” Lance snorted. “Trust me. Keithy-kins wants nothing to do with good ol’ Lancy-Lance. So he probably won’t come.” He shrugged as far as he could, reclined on the cushions. “That’s it.”

There was a pause, during which Lance was scrutinised like a dissected frog. “What did he actually do?” Hunk asked eventually, still suspicious.

“He stares.”

“He stares?”

“He _glares_. Constantly.”

“Is that it?”

“Dude, it’s really off-putting!” Hunk’s eyes drilling into his own wasn’t much better. Lance rolled onto his side, face to the cushions, putting a shoulder between him and his friend. Hunk leaned down, inescapable.  

“He glares. What else?”

“You’re not going to drop this, are you?” He twisted his neck to look sidelong.

“Nope,” Hunk confirmed, pulling a face. “It’s just: he’s always been fine with me. Bit awkward maybe, but that’s cool. So I don’t get it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have a problem with _you_.”

“You think he’s jealous?”

Honestly, he _hadn’t_ thought about it. “Huh?”

“Lance, you know that’s happened before,” Hunk said, expression wide and appealing. He walked around the end of the sofa so he could peer over the back, once more in Lance’s eyeline. “You’re talented, and handsome, and very successful -”

“- it’s not like Keith’s a rival actor.” Or bad-looking. There was a lot to be said for a muscled alabaster frame and a thousand-yard purple stare. Or there would be, if he wasn’t always frowning. And he worked at Alfor Altea’s theatre, so that had to count for something.

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be jealous,” Hunk said seriously, then his mouth twisted. “If he is. He didn’t seem like the type to me, but maybe…” he trailed off, face creased up in thought.

“Whatever,” Lance declared, defiantly rolling onto his other side, leaving Hunk behind him. “I just don’t think he’s gonna bother on Saturday, that’s all.”

“Why not? I think he will.”

“Were you listening?”

Hunk’s voice faded slightly as he moved back towards the recliner chair. “If he is jealous, he might wanna check this place out. Or just hang with his work friends. And even if you’re right and he just doesn’t like you, he could still like me.”

Lance harrumphed. “Alright. Don’t rub it in.”

He heard Hunk freeze. “What?”

“What?”

“You want him to like you?” Lance yelped when Hunk hoved into vision again, round brown nose nearly pressed to his own sharper one.

“What are you -”

“You said ‘rub it in’. That implies -”

“Nope.”

“Lance.”

“No way.” He sat up, forcing Hunk to move back. “Seriously, buddy. I don’t care.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunk crossed his arms in a Meaningful Fashion. Lance knew that look. He never won against it. “I get it. I see how it is.”

“Hunk, no.”

“No?”

“ _No_.”

Hunk sniffed, looking infuriatingly knowledgeable and superior. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Lance replied, heavily. He looked seriously at his best friend in the world. “Hunk, I’ve known the guy all of three days and I can already tell you the chances of me liking him _that way_ are less than zero.”

Hunk actually had the nerve to look a little disappointed. “Alright, fine. Just promise you’ll be nice to him on Saturday.”

“If he comes.”

“He will,” Hunk insisted, stubborn. “Promise?”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. I’ll be nice to mullet-man on Saturday. As long as he’s not a total jerk to me, fair?”

“Fair.”

“Great.”

Belatedly, Lance realised Hunk had stolen the remote back. A badly overacted shoot-out was replaced on the screen with loving panoramas of sprawling vineyards. Hunk settled back into the chair, humming to himself as he watched.

“You know, we haven’t had a dinner party for ages. Not since your Mom’s birthday.”

“Hmm,” Lance said, noncommittal. A sly thought curled his lip. “We should probably disinfect everything first, though. You know. Just in case.”

“ _Lance!_ ”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again everyone, thanks so much for reading! Short one this time, but next time Keith and Lance are going head to head... watch out for it!
> 
> A special shout-out to the group chat for being kind enough to include me and patiently listening to my frustrated ranting! I'm feel very lucky and rather honoured. 
> 
> I love to hear from you, and you can find me here, on twitter @DancingDowager and on tumblr @ dancingdowager.tumblr.com.
> 
> Again, a hundred thankyou's. You guys rock, and I hope you're enjoying this little fic. Take care of yourselves!


	5. Lunch break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think you could maybe do your job at any point?”  
> “What? What the cheese?”

“Oh, quiznak.”

“Eh – quiznak?” Confusion scooped a dimple between Lance’s raised brows.

“Long story,” Shiro said, dropping down to sit beside the actor on the edge of the stage, cross-legged while Lance’s brown calves dangled, going on forever…  Keith blinked, shaking himself. “What’s the matter, princess?”

“ _Princess_?” Lance echoed, sculpted eyebrows comically high on his forehead.

“Long story,” said Pidge, without looking up from her phone. The heat had forced her to abandon overlarge hoodies in favour of a violently fluorescent green t-shirt. Keith was fairly confident she could be seen from space.

“I’ve forgotten my lunch,” Allura complained, making one last rummage through her handbag. She sighed, dropping it back onto the seat. “In fact, I’ve forgotten my lunch, my purse _and_ my sunscreen. Brilliant.”

“I could -” Keith began.

“Hey, I can help you out,” Lance offered, bright as Pidge’s top. “Hunk won’t let me go anywhere at the moment without three or four bottles of factor fifty. And I could take you out to lunch, if you like,” he added, hopefully. “Know any good places – _princess_?” He shot her a winning grin along with imaginary bullets from his finger guns.

The finger guns weren’t a one off, apparently. They were a thing.

“You’d be noticed,” Keith said bluntly, wincing when Lance visibly deflated, pulling a face at him. It wasn’t _his_ fault.

“Hmm,” Allura agreed, pushing her ponytail over one shoulder, not noticing the wordless exchange. “Unfortunately Sal’s is the only place I know of we could sneak you in, and they’re not so great on food.”

“If by ‘not great’ you mean terrible,” Pidge muttered, tapping her screen.

“Not bad for a drink though,” Shiro observed. Keith guessed he had noticed; he was careful to smile at Lance. “We should all go over there after rehearsals sometime soon.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.” Lance nodded.

“So,” Allura clasped her hands together, holding them to one side of a sweet expression, an exaggerated smile. “Who fancies going to the sandwich shop on the end and picking up one of their Caesar salads for me?”

“I’ll go,” Keith offered, standing and patting for his wallet. His keys clinked in his jeans pocket.

“I’ll have a Thai green curry chicken sub. Thanks,” Pidge tacked on, shameless. Keith rolled his eyes.

“Anything else?”

“Coke.”

“Right. Any more, now that I’m sandwich boy?”

Shiro shook his head, as did Lance. “Actually Hunk left me a lunchbox, so -”

\- which wouldn’t have stopped him taking Allura out, sure.

“I’ll come along,” the lady in question said, stretching. Lance’s eyes flicked over to see the hem of her crop top lift a fraction, though he quickly transferred his gaze to her face. “It’d be good to get some air – oh! Let’s eat on the roof.”

“There’s a roof?”

“Duh,” said Pidge, looking up with a grin.

“Aw come on, you know what I meant,” Lance insisted, pouting. 

“There’s a small courtyard up there,” Shiro explained, already sliding off the stage and offering his flesh and bone hand to Pidge.

“What’s the point of sending Keith out if you’re gonna make me get burned anyway?” she grumbled, but only half-heartedly.

In the end, Pidge needn’t have worried. By the time Keith and Allura made it back, Coran had mysteriously located a large parasol and picnic blanket, and when they clambered up the noisy metal steps to the roof, they were laid out and waiting. His friends were draped over the chequered wool like the cast of this years’ hot new rom-com, shades jammed onto their noses. If they’d only been on a beach, rather than a few metre square of sizzling hot tarmac, they could have taken a shot and sent it straight to press.

“Here we go,” Allura said, dropping a carrier bag into the middle of them. “We got crisps and ice-pops.”

“You mean Keith got crisps and ice-pops,” Pidge said, diving for the bag and grabbing one of the plastic wrapped lollies. Vapour rose from it in swirling white.

“Well yes, but I carried them,” Allura said, settling into a spot saved for her – by Lance, of course. They both took an ice pop; Lance going straight for the bright blue could-be-raspberry-could-be-antifreeze flavour.

Keith squinted, taking a moment to look across the skyline. Disjointed, rambling shapes pierced searing, glorious blue. The traffic below hummed in the background like an engine ticking over, voices of shoppers dimmed and dulled. _The Castle_ was one of the tallest buildings for miles, towering apartments blocks reserved for the city centre. Up here there was a noticeable breeze; light and playful, which picked up and tangled his flyaway hairs. He took a moment to undo his ponytail, sweeping it back and retying, before he felt skin prickle on his bared neck. He looked around to catch Lance turning away; making a popping sound with his lips, which were already stained purplish.

“So, this is nice,” he opened, and gave Allura a nudge. “You come here often?” He leered over the sunglasses.

“Oh stop it,” Allura chided, but she did it smiling, with real affection. “You don’t have to pretend to fancy me when we’re on break.”

“Pretend?” Lance asked, innocent eyes over the tops of his shades. Allura laughed.

“Enough, you’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lance agreed. He licked at his ice-pop; his tongue was turning purple too. Keith shifted, squeezing past Pidge to take a spot under the parasol, where the light wasn’t painful. She swiped at her screen a few last times, and tinny music started up; upbeat and rhythmic. He didn’t recognise it.

“Oh, I love this one,” Lance said, leaning back on his hands. His arms were surprisingly muscular for someone so lean. He tilted his head back into the warmth, bobbing it slightly in time. After a brief pause, words dropped from his lips in smooth treacle tones, perfectly matching those of the singer.

“You sing?” Allura asked, flipping the lid on her salad box.

“A little,” Lance said, deliberately off hand. “I used to sing a lot with my brother, but I’ve never had to for a movie.” He peered across at her, head lolling, teeth just visible under the curve of his lip. “Why, like what you hear?”

“It’s a useful skill,” Allura said, digging her fork into the lettuce. “Especially in this line of work.”

“So do _you_ sing?”

“A little,” she echoed, shrugging with a smile.

“Allura sings beautifully,” Shiro supplied, carefully wiping tuna mayo from the corner of his mouth. Lance’s attention turned back to the wider group.  “We used it a lot in _Hamlet_.”

“Woah, you guys did _Hamlet_?”

“A while ago now,” Shiro said, and Coran hummed agreement. The orange-haired manager was sprawled out in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, enormous aviators balanced on his crooked nose. “We haven’t done any Shakespeare in a while,” Shiro continued, almost dreamily, face creasing into something ponderous.

“Who played Hamlet?”

Shiro didn’t answer for a moment, lost in his thoughts. His schemes, if Keith new that look. Eventually he stirred himself. “Guy called Ryan Kinkade.”

“And you must have been Ophelia, right?” Lance said, steering the conversation back to Allura. She nodded, palm over her mouth as she struggled with a longer-than-expected piece of lettuce. Lance rolled his head back again, apparently delighting on the golden touch of sun on his neck. Keith busied himself with his own lunch, ripping the paper bag with more force than needed. “So you were nearly Princess of Denmark,” Lance mused to the cloudless sky. He looked up again. “Where does that ‘princess’ thing come from?”

Allura made a disgruntled noise, hand still in front of her face. Shiro chuckled and Pidge sniggered into her sub, so Coran answered the question. Keith shoved sandwich into his mouth, the heat and sting of Cajun chilli hitting his tongue. “A critic who used to come here often once said that ‘If Alfor Altea is the King of theatre, Allura Altea is certainly its Princess’,” the manager recited proudly, back straight. “It was an excellent review.”

“It certainly was,” Shiro agreed, mildly.

“So were the next six,” Pidge added, still sniggering.

“And the notes,” Allura said, resigned. “Don’t forget the notes.”

“And the flowers!”

“Woah.” Keith guessed Lance was probably wide-eyed under his shades, looking around their circle. “So this guy was… _enthusiastic_ , then.”

 “He was creep,” Pidge snorted, having devoured the last of her sub and moved on to a second ice pop.

“Holy Crow,” Lance said, sitting up to look at Allura. “You were okay though, right? Nothing happened?”

“Lance, the dude was like seventy,” Pidge said.

“Still.”

“Nothing happened, Lance,” Allura answered, smiling sardonically. “It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but I’m fairly certain he had no intentions beyond… uh… expressing his admiration. For my acting.”

“We have policies on how to stop things getting out of hand. We’d never let anything happen to Allura,” Shiro said, firm. “Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Certainly not.” Coran agreed, briskly. “I checked all the messages myself. Had it gone any further I’d have had a word, let me tell you.”

“Probably helped that after the first note we sent Allura home with Keith every day,” Pidge added, smirking.

“Oh,” said Lance. “Did you?”

“There was never anyone there,” Keith muttered, feeling bound to speak for himself. “It was just in case.”

“And I was very grateful,” Allura finished, smiling. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve had worse,” she said, setting her empty salad box aside and selecting a bright pink ice pop. “You’re the one was has paparazzi camped outside his hotel, after all.”

“Yeah Lance,” Pidge said, mouth wickedly curved, “tell us _your_ creepy stalker stories. That’s way more fun.”

“Guys,” chided Shiro, who felt compelled to be the responsible adult in most situations.

Lance shifted on the spot, shoulders twitching. “Well…”

“You don’t have to,” Keith blurted, quickly. He felt the others’ gazes land on him like the chilli burn on his lips, pointedly didn’t look at them as he fought the flush on the back of his neck. He should have left his hair down. At least he was in the shade, where it would be less noticeable. “If you don’t want to. It’s obviously not nice.”

‘Nice’? Well done Keith. Great work.

“It’s... okay,” Lance said, and Keith really, _really_ hoped he was hesitating to think  about it and not because he could see the pink stain spreading on his skin.  Lance shrugged, uncrossing and re-crossing his ankles, sun gleaming on his bare shins. “There isn’t much to tell, really. Hunk goes through my fanmail and stuff so I don’t see the bad bits.”

“There are bad bits?” Keith asked, confused, and when he realised the others were all looking at him again he grabbed an ice lolly and tore it open, clamping his mouth around that so he couldn’t speak again.

“I guess so.” Another shrug, and this time it felt like he was sloughing off something unpleasant; sticky.

“What’s the weirdest thing anyone has ever sent you?” Pidge asked, lips and a good portion of her chin stained emerald.

“Underwear.”

“Eeeewwww!” Pidge sat back cackling, and Allura made an alarmed sound around her own lolly, eyes wide. Shiro’s brows shot up.

“ _Worn_ underwear,” Lance clarified, pulling a face.

“Oh,” said the director. His nose scrunched up in disgust. “Oh dear.”

“Yep, that was an interesting one,” Lance said, nodding. His smile was creeping back, more honest now, the tension in his shoulder muscles easing away. “The sound Hunk made was hilarious.”

“Where is Hunk today?” Allura asked, suddenly. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Oh, he’s sorting out the new place. Sneaking everything in.”

“You did go for it then,” Shiro observed, hand snaking across the picnic blanket towards the crisps.

“Yeah,” Lance grinned, and Keith sucked too hard on his lolly when a sliver of tongue wetted his lips, eyes sparkling. “It has some… pretty cool features.”

“Excellent,” said Coran, before anyone could ask what those were. “Then we’re still on for Saturday?”

“Sure are,” Lance said, nodding. “Hunk’s got a shopping list as long as my arm.”

Shiro frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want us to bring anything?”

“Nah, nah,” Lance waved the question aside, using one long finger to push his shades further up his nose. “We’re good, man. Just yourselves.”

“Thankyou, Lance.”

“My pleasure.” His teeth were so white; a bright contrast to bronze lips. “Really. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Pidge, screwing up the plastic lolly case and scrabbling for another. Shiro snatched the bag away before she could take one, leaving her to pout. “Ug. Fine. What’s the weirdest thing other than underwear?”

“Wasn’t that weird enough?” Lance asked, incredulous.

“I’m just wondering what your crazed fans get up to,” Pidge teased, sly. Keith bit his ice pop in half.

“Other than the knickers lady, I don’t think I really have any,” Lance said, frowning.

“Are you _sure?_ ” Pidge pressed, and Keith was going to kill her. He was going to strangle her with lolly wrappers.

“Come on, that’s enough,” Shiro said, and Keith sent him a pathetically grateful look that Shiro dutifully pretended not to notice, like the friend he was. “It’s a nice day. Let’s talk about something a bit less... sordid.”

Pidge pouted but complied. Coran followed Shiro’s lead and asked Lance more about his upcoming movie, and soon the group were laughing as the actor told them stories from the set, arms waving through the warm air and voice climbing loud into the perfect sky. Keith quietly huddled back under the parasol, giving Pidge only a slight response to her nudging.

After a while the heat grew too much, even in the shade, and the group began to gather up their mess ready to return to work. Keith led the way down the steps, one hand on the pipe railing while the other was full with their leftovers, heading for the bar where he could stash the remaining few lollies. Opening the door, he tensed up and frowned at a tall figure silhouetted against the windows; expression clearing a moment later when straw-coloured hair and a geeky t-shirt resolved into focus.

“Matt!”

“There you are!” Matt’s grin went ear to ear, but as Keith walked closer he didn’t miss the slightly wan, waxy look to his skin, or the redness of his eyes and nose. “I was starting to think you’d all been abducted by aliens or something.”

“Wait, Matt?” Echoed Pidge’s voice behind him. Her head popped out around Shiro’s waist, peering into the bar. She glared on seeing her older brother.

“Hey Pidge.”

“You’re supposed to be in bed!”

“Good afternoon to you too,” Matt quipped, rolling his eyes at Keith. He grinned back, stepping aside so Pidge could stand in front of him with her arms crossed and feet planted, glowering up at the stooping, lanky man in front of her.

“You’re still sick,” she said, truculent.

“I’m not that bad anymore,” Matt offered, belying his statement with a large sniff. He rubbed his sore nose under Pidge’s glare. “Oh come on. You’ve had days to gawp at the famous guy, it’s my turn.”

“Matt!”

“Hi, by the way,” Matt added, straightening up and waving at Lance, who had followed Shiro into the bar to watch the reunion. “I’m Matt, Katie’s big brother. I was the theatre technician until my little sister made me unnecessary.”

“I did not make you unnecessary!” Pidge hissed, stamping her foot. “I _read the desk manual_. If you wanted to, _you_ could read the desk manual.”

“But why would I now you know it all?” Matt widened his eyes innocently, and Pidge made a strangled sound of frustration through her teeth. Which turned into an indignant yelp when Matt reached out and buried his fingers in her untidy mop of hair, ruffling it. He dodged her flailing hands without looking, smiling crookedly at Lance. “Anyway, these days I work front-of-house and help out backstage. When I’m not dying,” he added, sniffing again. Keith left the two siblings tussling and walked behind the bar for napkins.

“Nice to meet you,” Lance said, striding over and stepping carefully around the scuffling sister to offer Matt his hand. Matt shook it awkwardly with the wrong one of his, the other preoccupied with Pidge. “Hope you feel better soon.”

“Man, me too,” he said ruefully. Pidge swiped at his belly.

“Matt!” Allura had arrived, hands full of the remains of their picnic, Coran standing beside her with the parasol over his shoulder and blanket tucked under his arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Allura,” Matt breathed, reverently. He dropped his grip on Pidge to scratch at his neck, and she immediately scuttled away and began frantically clawing at her fringe, muttering under her breath. “I’m better. I mean, I’m a lot better. Better than I was. Thanks,” Matt blathered, haphazard. Keith approached with a napkin that Matt didn’t notice, and this time he exchanged a look with the other Holt sibling. Pidge pulled a face that made Keith bite down on a snigger.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Lance glance from Matt to Allura, a frown dimpling his brows once more.

“Glad to hear it,” said Allura warmly, and Matt sucked in a breath, chest rising. “Do you think you’ll be able to come to Lance’s house-warming on Saturday?”

“What?” Matt asked, bewildered. “House-warming? Oh, oh yeah! Hope so. Are you going?”

“Of course,” Allura said, head tilting.

“Okay,” Matt replied, breathless. “Okay, yeah. Great. That’s great.”

Realisation had formed on Lance’s face and settled into a knowing smile, just shy of a smirk. His eyes twinkled as he looked back at the older Holt, saying: “Well I guess I’ll look forward to seeing you both there then.”

“Yeah,” Matt’s head bobbed like a cancan line. “Yeah, definitely. Absolutely.”

“If you’re well enough,” Pidge snapped, fierce.

“Pi-idge,” Matt whined.

“Go home!” she ordered, pushing at his ribs. “Go home and sleep you moron, or I’ll have to spoon-feed you porridge again.”

“I’m fine!”

He wasn’t. Snot was starting to escape his nose. Keith thrust the napkin at him, wincing.

“Mom said you weren’t to get up!” Pidge berated, now forcing her brother towards the stairs. “You’re supposed to be sleeping. Wait.” She stopped, brow furrowing even further. “Did you _drive_ here? Like this?”

“I’m not that stupid,” Matt scoffed. “I got the bus.”

Pidge groaned. “Great, so you’ve probably infected the whole bus route. You’ve probably infected _us_.” She gave him one last shove towards the stairs, folding her arms. “Go home. Now.”

Matt opened his mouth, but Shiro got there first. Allura was giggling softly beside him. “Keith, do you have your spare kit?”

“Yeah, I can take him,” Keith offered. He frowned at Matt. “Are you well enough to go on the back of the bike?”

“Bike?” Keith heard Lance’s voice pick up quietly.

“Keith rides his motorbike to work,” Shiro told him.

“Oh.”

In front of Keith, Matt was nodding. “I can, I can. Pidge, I swear! I can hold on. It’s only what, twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” Keith corrected, knowing full well that he could do it in ten. He jerked his head and Matt followed him to go and collect the spare helmet and jacket from the office. Fortunately Matt was wearing jeans, so Keith didn’t need to worry about his legs.

“We’ll see you soon,” Shiro called after them. Keith silently lifted his hand in response.

 

 

Stepping out of the theatre was a breath of fresh air, even with the stifling hot leathers and helmet on. Keith felt his shoulders relax as he rode over there, occasionally catching another sniffle over the helmet microphones. He stayed long enough to insist Matt took some more medicine and sipped down some water before hopping back on the bike, and he allowed himself to take the longer route back, weaving out of the traffic and speeding down the straights just fast enough to feel the wind-chill.

When he got back, he was feeling better. Not perfect, but better.

Only when he opened the backstage door, he almost walked straight into Lance, who was leaning against the wall with his phone in his hands, shades balanced on his head, tuneful humming cut off when Keith swung the door wide, helmet dangling in his hand.

“Oh. You’re back.” Lance looked away, sliding his mobile into his pocket. “Well. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

Keith frowned. “What?”

“See you tomorrow?” Lance repeated, carefully, as though not sure why Keith didn’t understand.

“You mean you’re leaving.”

“Yeah? Something came up.”

“Right.”

“Yeah?”

He knew he should bite his tongue. He knew he was going to end up apologising to someone later; maybe Shiro. Probably Lance. But he couldn’t help himself. His hand tightened around the helmet’s chin guard, his hair feeling freshly sticky where it had been pressed against his neck.

“Do you think you could maybe do your job at any point?”

“What? What the cheese?” Lance peeled off the wall, standing straight, and Keith pushed his fists to the floor so they didn’t shake, helmet bouncing against his leg.

“You,” he growled, inarticulate. “You’re never here.”

“Look mister grumpy, I’m literally here right now -”

 “You’re _leaving_ right now. _Again_. For the fourth time running.”

Lance did manage to look shame-faced at that, brows knotting, but his mouth was still twisted into something sour. “I’m telling you, something came up! I can’t do it any other time, okay?”

“You wouldn’t do this on a film,” Keith accused, flat. Lance’s eyebrow spiked up, angry.

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re obviously not taking this seriously!” Keith spat, voice climbing. Lance almost took a step backwards, correcting himself just in time. “You’re here to do a job! Do it!”

“Hey, I don’t hear anyone else complaining about my work! Maybe you’re just up yourself, theatre-boy!”

“Up _my_ self?” Keith growled, voice dropping low and dangerous and damn; he was hovering on the edge of taking a step towards Lance, getting up into his space like the jerks he used to deal with in college. “I’m not the one who thinks he can swan in and out and mess around and do whatever just because he’s famous!”

“Since when have I messed around?” Lance demanded, fury making his eyes bright. He didn’t back down, chest heaving as much as Keith’s own. “I’ve learned my lines, taken my direction. What exactly is your problem?!”

“ _You!_ You are the problem!” Keith snapped back, jacket creaking as he raised his shoulders. “You flirt with Allura all the time! You skip out whenever you want!”

“I told you, I -” Lance cut himself off, face transforming from anger to a kind of sick glee. He stood back, setting one hand onto his own hip. “Oh I see. I get it.”

Keith glared, gritting out the words over breath gone ragged. “What?”

“You’re jealous,” Lance pronounced, with a kind of grim satisfaction. Keith’s fingers clenched, his belly knotting up into something sharp and painful. Lance just kept nodding, head back so he could look down his nose at Keith, wearing a vicious smirk like a victory medal. “Allura, huh?” he said, cocking a brow again. “Well man, can’t say I blame you. Guess you’ve already got competition in that Matt guy, right? But it’s sure as heck not my fault she’s not interested. Sort it out between yourselves, dude. Leave me out of it.”

Keith stared, mouth creeping open as Lance ran his off.

“Some anger issues you’ve got going on there, my guy. Maybe want to do something about that and ease off the whole bad-boy-screw-you image, she doesn’t seem like the type. Now will you move? Hunk’s probably waiting with the car by now.”

Lance moved; trying to step around him, and before Keith knew it he had slammed his free hand into the door, blocking Lance’s exit was a bang. Lance darted backwards, but his startled expression soon eased into something angry.

“Seriously? What are you gonna do, man? Hit me? Let me go.”

“ _That’s_ what you think this is?” Keith heaved; pushing the words out between his clenched teeth was physically painful. “You think I’m mad because I like Allura?”

Lance feigned a careless shrug, but a vein in his neck was pulsing. “Calling it like I see it, man.”

“Seriously? That’s all you can come up with?”

“Well excuse me,” Lance retorted, sarcasm dripping, “but you haven’t exactly been the most forthcoming guy this whole time, you know.”

“You idiot.”

“Tell you what buddy, how about you shut the fu -”

“I’m gay.”

“- up.” Lance did a double-take, mouth dropping open, eyebrows suddenly lifting. “What?”

“I. Am. Gay.” Keith said, enunciating every single syllable. In the moment, it hardly occurred to him that coming out for this, the fourth time, was both the easiest and least expected. Lance’s jaw wobbled.

“Oh. Um. Are you?”

“Positive,” Keith said; grim satisfaction all his this time as he leaned over his own outstretched bicep, closer to Lance’s flustered expression. “So no, this has nothing to do with me _crushing on Allura_.”

“Right, yeah, okay,” the movie-star was sweating now, feet edging, twitchy as though considering just ducking under Keith’s arm and running for it. Blue eyes flicked to their corners; meeting Keith’s own. Lance made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, Keith was close enough to see his Adam’s apple bob around it. “Come on! You can see why I thought so! All that white knight stuff with her lunch and the creepy guy and chasing Matt away -”

“I look out for my friends,” Keith replied, savage. “You might not recognise that.”

Horror turned Lance’s face over. His mouth opened and closed again, biting his lip, and Keith’s stomach - clawing and hot and twisted - plummeted right through the floor, heavy and sick. He didn’t mean for this; knew he’d gone too far. Way too far; the corners of Lance’s eyes were damp and shiny. Keith looked away, panic driving words he didn’t think about, not breathing right. He wasn’t in danger of shaking anymore, his hands were limp.

“So, yeah. What I’m saying is: we’re professionals. If you’re not gonna commit to this like you promised, you should go back to movies. You’re not the only famous actor who would work with us.”

And he left like a coward, leather scraping against the wall and the skin of Lance’s shoulder as he brushed past him into the heart of the theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I made myself sad writing that argument. But don't worry, soft times coming up!
> 
> Thankyou so much for reading, and extra thanks to the lovely people on the Klance Writers Support chat for all their help and kindness. 
> 
> You can find me on twitter @dancingdowager and on tumblr @dancingdowager.tumblr.com. I love to hear off you, always up for klance chat or critique! 
> 
> Thanks guys. Take care of yourselves x


	6. House-warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How about you take your opinion and shove it – wait. What?”

“I don’t think I should go.”

Shiro hesitated. To his credit, he didn’t sigh or roll his eyes, though Keith could tell his patience was wearing thin. He shut the wardrobe door with an abrupt clatter and leant against it; smart in a crisp pale-blue shirt, sleeves neatly rolled above the elbows. Another shirt dangled from a hanger in his metallic hand.

“Because of Thursday?”

Keith nodded, teeth sharp in his inside lip. It had taken all of a minute for Shiro to realise something was wrong after the fight, and only a few more to drag Keith to his office and the confession from his lips; the whole gutless tumble spilled into the stifling air. Keith had tried not to see disappointment in his friend’s eyes as they talked it over, and spent his evening hidden away so his mother didn’t see shame in his. She hadn’t asked.

“My opinion hasn’t changed, Keith. It sounds like you went too far, but not so far saying sorry won’t do. Lance isn’t unreasonable.” He paused before going on carefully. “Unless there was anything you haven’t told me?”

Keith shook his head, hair swaying against the back of his neck, biting pain intensifying as his jaw clenched. Shiro had seen too much of his lowest for Keith to bother with secrets anymore.

“Then you should definitely go and apologise,” Shiro said, proffering the hanger. The shirt he’d picked out was a soft, forest-green affair with black buttons and a grandpa collar. “Especially as you didn’t quite manage it yesterday.”

Keith scowled. They both knew he had every opportunity to apologise yesterday; he’d waited for Lance to arrive with the words curling on his tongue. And then chickened out when hurt and hatred looked back at him for the bare second it took to register who he was and move on. Keith found business in the depths of the theatre afterwards, sorting through the storage rooms in the clinging heat.

“He won’t want me there,” Keith muttered, glaring at a frayed patch of Shiro and Adam’s bedroom carpet.

“You said you’d be there,” Shiro countered, insufferably logical. “It’d be ruder to skip out now. And Lance will appreciate you making the effort.” He pushed the hanger against Keith’s chest with gentle insistence, offering a wry smile when his hands finally settled around the fabric. “It’ll only get harder the longer you leave it.”

Deep breaths. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Great.” Shiro stepped back, looking him over critically. “Could probably do with brushing your hair as well.”

“I did.”

Shiro chuckled, kneeling on the bed to reach across it and snatch a hairbrush from a nightstand. He tossed it to Keith; who fumbled the catch with his hands full, making Shiro snort. “Coffee?”

“Please.” Keith stripped out of his t-shirt while Shiro padded to the kitchen; a moment later he heard the clunk, growl and gurgle of the coffee machine coming to life. He was just doing the buttons all the way up when Shiro’s head reappeared around the doorframe.

“What are you taking?”

Keith raised an eyebrow, finishing with the neck fastenings and moving on to the sleeves. He’d gone and left his bike gloves on again. “Hunk said not to bring anything.”

“It’s a house-warming dinner Keith, you can’t show up empty-handed. Red or white?”

“Red?”

Shiro disappeared again, and Keith strolled over to the mirror; unimpressed by his own pale, awkward reflection. The shirt was alright, though it made his strange eye colour pretty obvious. Probably not the kind of thing people normally wore to dinner at a movie-star’s, but whatever. Already too warm though, so he brushed his hair backwards and slipped an elastic from his wrist to tie it up, tucking it under into a bun thing. That was… okay. Unable to do any more, he put the brush back before following the smell of espresso into the kitchen.

The cramped kitchen and living space had the slightly square, static look of military tidiness, softened by the litter of Shiro and Adam’s shared life. Twin grins gazed out from pictures in the corner; taken at their engagement party. Assorted keys were bunched on a keyring from their last holiday together, in Crete. They’d been dropped on a neat stack of photography and wedding magazines beside the sofa. Shiro handed Keith a bottle of red wine along with his coffee, and he blew across the mug before taking a sip. It had been sweetened against his nerves. Shiro turned and reached into the fridge for a bottle of white and some almond milk, ruffling photos and letters pinned to the door with the tacky magnets they couldn’t resist buying at service stations. Some were Keith’s contributions, like the googly-eyed lion.

They chatted for a while, speaking of old and familiar things. Past road trips. That weird café with the Elvis impersonator. Shiro’s latest attempts to find a wedding venue. Keith was down to the sugary dregs when Shiro’s phone buzzed in his Levi’s, and he herded Keith down to the waiting taxi.

The drive was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday, especially now that the weather had broken from ridiculous heat to something actually enjoyable. Bright striped awnings shaded the wide walkways in the tall, gleaming, upmarket part of the city where Allura and Coran lived in the same apartment block. They were waiting for them outside the building; Coran dashing in chinos and blazer despite the temperature, the threatened guitar in a case on his back. Allura climbed into the taxi on a wave of hazy perfume, silver hair rippling, elegant in a baby pink jumpsuit and dangling earrings. They swept them up in conversation as soon as they were buckled in and the driver given an address in the suburbs.

Splashes of green heralded their arrival at the Holt house; a large brick building on a tree-lined avenue. A quick text had the siblings walking out to meet them; bickering gamely with each other, a clinking bag in Matt’s hand. He insisted he was better now even as he sniffed, accepting tissues from Allura’s handbag with adoring gratitude.

Keith was grateful to slip out of the chatter in favour of watching the view slide by his window; brief splurges of green becoming broader swathes, rushing by. Gaps between houses became larger, the buildings more private. He rubbed his thumb over the creases of the foil topping on the bottle as they went, searching for words. The others left him to it.

Eventually, the road fell parallel with a long brick wall, and the taxi swept up to a pair of iron gates.

“Uh. Are you sure this is the right address?” the driver queried, wary. Coran nodded, phone already up to his ear.

“Absolutely. Hunk? Yes, we’re here. If you wouldn’t mind arranging for the gates? Ah, perfect.”

Ahead of the bonnet, the gates swung open, pendulously slow. The driver seemed a little awed. Keith could only think of black-and-white horror films; a slow approach to a ruined house.

The tires crunched up a snaking driveway of gold-ish gravel, their own yellow-brick road. The Emerald City at the end was anything but ruined: obviously once a mansion, since carved up into luxury apartments. A new-built garage big enough for an entire fleet stood near to the original sprawling building; a stone thing with towering bay windows and a tangle of private entrances tacked on the front. On one they spotted Hunk; waving enthusiastically in a floral t-shirt as bright as his smile.

“What did you say your friend did?” The taxi driver asked, pulling up.  

“He just moved in,” Coran dodged answering, turning the conversation to arrangements for their ride home. Clenching his hand around the neck of the wine, Keith clambered out of the car.

“Glad you found us okay,” Hunk was saying, beaming, hands shaking any he could reach. “Come in, come in. We’re upstairs one floor, this way…” Allura and Coran followed immediately after the tall manager, the Holts hanging back with Shiro and Keith to tread nervously over the pristine tiles and carpets, spotless paint and mirrors in every hall. When Hunk threw open the door to their new apartment they were immediately enveloped in delicious smells of cooking; cream and garlic, roasting meat and the tang of spices; everyone making appropriate ‘mmm’ noises as they stepped inside.

… and there was Lance, standing behind an actual professional bar built into the kitchen island, a row of tall glasses glittering along the top. His shirt was as luminously white as his smile, faint blue stripes emphasising the slender length of his torso. Keith swallowed, looking away.

“Hey guys,” the movie-star greeted, flashing a grin. “Mojitos?”

“Yes,” Pidge answered at once, hopping up onto a barstool.

Lance chuckled, taking up a bottle and a measure. “Are you even old enough?”

“Yes,” said Pidge, at the same time Matt said ‘no’.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Allura added, eyes twinkling thanks as she slid a gift bag across the counter. Shiro did the same and took a seat beside Pidge, while Allura wandered further across the room. “Gorgeous place,” she commented, and Keith had to agree. The floors were a dark polished hardwood, the kitchen worktops gleaming chic black granite. A matching long table and chairs was laid with sparkling clean cutlery and crockery, dustless glasses laid out, settings complete with napkins.  The other end of the space was dominated by a huge tv on one wall, and a sunken square with sofa all the way round.

“Glad you like it,” Lance said, continuing with his mojito-making. Behind him Hunk hurried about, checking pans and the oven, opening cupboards for plates. Coran stepped up to offer another pair of hands and Keith hovered, slightly afraid that if he did try to help he was going to break things.  “We got pretty lucky.”

“You certainly did,” Allura observed, turning on the spot. “Settled in alright?”

Small talk and smooth, rolling Spanish guitar music filled the apartment, warm and relaxed. Keith managed to stay out the way for the most part, collecting his own cocktail after the others had taken theirs and Lance had delivered Allura’s to her personally. Fortunately he didn’t have to dangle for too long pretending to follow Coran and Hunk’s cooking talk before the large Samoan was dishing up; babbling excited thanks as Keith helped him carry artfully arranged serving platters to the table. Hunk took a seat at one end and Lance the other, letting them arrange themselves along the sides before a quick toast.

About three bites into dinner, Keith decided Hunk was some kind of culinary god.

“Oh my,” breathed Coran. Opposite him, Matt nodded frantically, Pidge at his side sitting with her eyes shut and the fork still in her mouth, as though transported. Allura moaned.

“Hunk, how do you do it? This is incredible!”

“Aww, guys.” His blush was barely visible against his dark skin, but the way his brown eyes crinkled was. “It’s nothing. Just a hobby.”

“You could be professional,” Shiro said, fervent. “Easily.”

“This is… this is really good,” Keith offered, wincing with the trip of his own tongue. He thought Lance might have snorted. He didn’t look.

If anyone noticed that Keith and Lance didn’t exchange a word over dinner, nobody commented. In fact, Keith barely spoke at all; but he could easily blame that on the food. Talking seemed like a waste of good eating time. Matt apparently felt the same, applying himself to his plate like a starving man; sniffling between mouthfuls. He and Pidge took turns stealing from one another. When Keith was pulled into contributing to the conversation, it was to talk of old productions: providing forgotten details and titbits, fading in and out without much notice. Keith couldn’t shake the feeling that Lance probably preferred it that way.

After dinner, Hunk waved off all attempts to help him clear up with surprising determination, shooing them away to slump into the sofa and chat. Lance called for another round of drinks and handed them out while Coran settled in and hauled his guitar from its case, softly strumming along to the music. Everyone was too full and satisfied to do much, so Keith positioned himself to stare out of the window, where a sweeping lawn gave way to bristling hedgerow, an artificial pond neatly cut out of the grass. It was pretty, if you liked that sort of thing.

“Keith.”

He jumped. Hunk had approached with a ready smile and surprisingly quiet steps, unnoticed over the playing strings. He pointed at Keith’s empty hands. “Can I get you anything? Glass of wine? Beer? Another cocktail? Glass of sherry? There’s still champagne.”

“Ah, uh. Beer? Please?”

“Coming right up.” Hunk retreated to the bar while laughter broke across the room. Matt and Lance seemed to be competing to make Allura chuckle, and Shiro and Pidge were prodding them along with questions. No help there. When Hunk returned Keith found himself taking an anxious slurp, toe-curlingly loud.

“So, uh. Thanks for cooking.”

“My pleasure, really.” Hunk beamed. “I love to cook but there’s nothing quite like getting to eat it all together, you know? That’s what really makes it worth it.”

Keith thought of the other night; of his and his mother’s efforts to make dinner.

“I think I know what you mean,” he said, trying to smile back. Perhaps it was wonky, but Hunk didn’t seem to mind.

“Actually, I’m really glad to have you all here tonight,” Hunk went on, voice lowering conspiratorially. “It can get pretty lonely with all the travelling, you know? And you can never really be sure what kind of reception you’ll get somewhere new, and in this business…” the thought trailed away. “It’s great to be around a bunch of people who are chill, if that makes sense.”

“Chill?” Keith queried, glancing at the sofa again. Lance’s arms were waving round as he told a story, dangerously close to spilling his drink over his lap.

“Yeah,” Hunk nodded, chewing his lip. “I mean, I don’t wanna complain. We’ve been lucky to work with some really great people. And I get that Lance can be, like, a lot. If you don’t know him. Loud and, okay, he’s pretty competitive; and that can rub people up the wrong way sometimes. But really, he’s the kinda guy who wants to get on with everyone. He takes it to heart when people are weird just because of who he is, you know?”

His pulse was too strong in his neck to swallow more beer. “Like what?”

“Well…” Hunk drew out the word, swirling his own glass in one massive hand. “Resentful, I suppose? Jealous of him?”

Quiznak.

“It’s worse when they’re fake nice,” Hunk went on, solemnly. “There you think someone is friendly, and it turns out they were just into it for exposure or career stuff or whatever.”

Quiznak.

“So it’s great that we’re here long enough to get to know you guys,” Hunk was saying, oblivious to the guilt ringing in Keith’s head. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out with anyone who treats him like everybody else. And it makes a change from just the theatre or the hospital.”

Wait.

“Hospital? Is… is someone sick?”

Hunk’s mouth twitched, collapsing. “No. I mean the kids hospital? St Anne’s?”

“Why have you being going there?”

“Lance has been doing visits. He didn’t tell you?”

Keith groaned, head pitching forward into his free hand, other tightening around the glass hard enough to squeak.

“Keith?! Keith, are you okay?”

“I’m the worst.” He looked up into creased brown, worry bleeding through the lines of the large man’s face. “The absolute worst.”

“You’re not feeling sick? I swear everything was cooked -”

“I’m not sick. And dinner was – was _amazing_ , Hunk, thanks. It’s not that.” Hunk’s brow was creased like folded paper, a heavy hand settling on one shoulder. Impossible to escape. “I, uh. I misjudged him. Lance, I mean. I didn’t know he was doing that. I thought he was just… skipping out. Or not taking us seriously.”

“It’s my fault,” Hunk said at once. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I thought you guys knew and had cleared it after the first time. I’ll talk to him. And Shiro.”

“I’ll do it,” Keith offered quickly, before his nerves gave out. If there’d been ice cubes in the glass they’d be rattling. “It’s my fault. I should have known Lance wouldn’t do that.”

“Hey, how could you have?” Hunk asked with a gentle smile and a squeeze. Keith swallowed down the words punching in his throat. The big man seemed to take his quiet for embarrassment, and he lifted his hand. “I’ll go explain it to Shiro. I’m sure Lance won’t mind if you tell him what’s up.”

Keith made a noncommittal noise, and Hunk headed over to the sofa. Keith took a deep breath and reached into his pocket for his phone, thumbing open a few apps and scrolling down notifications. He hadn’t checked since Monday.

It wasn’t long before he found the photo. Blurry, obviously rushed; a streaky impression of Lance rather than his true image. And the caption below:

_‘omg guys Lance Mcclain is in the hospital im literally in right now!!!!’_

Quiznak. Just… quiznak.

He was frowning so deeply, it was a few moments before he realised Shiro was trying to catch his eye. The director was leaning back on the sofa, an arm extended over the cushions. Hunk was now seated beside the older man, rapid words flying between him, Pidge and Matt. Unnoticed, Shiro waved slightly at Keith, and when violet met grey and held, he jerked his head to the side. Keith raised an eyebrow, and Shiro repeated the motion, brow drawing down a little. That time, Keith had the wherewithal to follow the motion around.

Okay. Lance was in the kitchen space. Alone.

He looked back, and Shiro widened his eyes at him, meaningfully.

Keith shoved his phone back in his pocket and drained his glass.

 

 

“Hey.”

“Hey - oh. Keith.”

And it was all going so well.

He’d only wanted to grab some more ice. Should have been in and out, but for some reason the stage manager had decided now was the time to join the party. How the heck did he move so quietly? And in those boots? Lance kept his face carefully neutral as he straightened up, leaning back against the counter. Keith was shifting from foot to foot, shoulders slumped inside his shirt. Good colour on him, though. Made his eyes pop. And the bun thing he had going on wasn’t terrible either. Did nothing to hide his wince at Lance’s expression.

“Can I get you anything?” Lance asked, cool.

Keith’s lip twitched. It was a little pink. “So, uh. I’m an asshole.”

“How about you take your opinion and shove it – wait. What?” Lance stopped himself, staggered. The other man sighed.

“I’m an asshole. I thought you were flaking on us and you weren’t. And I shouldn’t have had a go at you anyway. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly Lance was really grateful that he’d leant back against the counter.

“You what?”

“I’m sorry,” Keith repeated, shrugging helplessly. “This is… lame, I know. But sorry.”

“Where did this come from?” Lance asked, eyebrows knotting together. “Did Hunk say something to you?” They’d seemed pretty cosy for a minute there, and Lance was fairly sure Keith had looked at his best friend with adoration in his eyes over dinner. Mind you, Hunk’s cooking had that effect on people.

“No,” Keith denied, but a moment later he was peering at the floor, nose scrunching up. “I mean, he told me about St Anne’s, but I was already - you know. Planning on apologising.”

“Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Keith burst out, head rushing up. Lance sucked in a breath under the sudden assault of purple eyes and dark brows, fierce and focused. “We’d have got it. I’m not that much of a jerk.”

Perhaps he should have laughed, pointed out that Keith was admitting to being at least some of jerk, but he couldn’t. Something about those eyes and the stare and the tense, closed way Keith was standing was doing funny things to his abdomen. Or maybe that was from leaning against the counter edge too long. He shifted, rubbing his neck.

“I dunno. Seemed like showing off.”

“ _How_?”

He was so honestly incredulous Lance almost did laugh that time. “Well, people sometimes think it’s like a publicity stunt, you know? Or that I just like the attention.” He shrugged, twisting the seams of his shirt. “Not gonna lie I’m a sucker for attention, but -”

“That’s sick.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about -”

“Not you, them!” Lance blinked. Keith’s face was twisted in anger, eyebrows sunk over the cute little creases on his nose. His glare actually had Lance think something poetic about storm clouds at sea for a second before he caught himself, own eyes widening as Keith bit out: “That’s just gross! Why would they think that? It’s sick kids, who would even -”

“I know, right?!” Heat leapt up in his chest, drawing him forwards and closer. “Most of them are too young to even understand I’m an _actor_ , for crying out loud! They’re all excited to see some dude from their favourite movie and people are crawling all over it to make it a _move_ or something.”

“That’s gross,” Keith repeated, nodding sharply. “It’s like they can’t imagine doing something nice just because, so they can’t believe anyone else would either.”

“Maybe, but…” he trailed off, fingertips found the back of his hair again as the heat and energy left his system, winding out into the silence between the two of them. “It’s… annoying, right? So I don’t mention it anymore.”

“It’s okay,” Keith said at once. “They don’t know you. Ignore them. We know you’re not like that.”

“Do you?” He cocked a brow, pulling his mouth into a weak smirk when Keith pinked, colour warming pale cheekbones. “You guys don’t really know me either.”

“I – no,” Keith admitted, flushed face abruptly turned from his. “But we – we know enough to know you’re not like that. You’re not a jerk.”

“What was that?” Lance asked, smirk becoming a real smile as he cupped a hand around one ear. “Didn’t catch that, sorry?”

Keith’s mouth curled upwards with amusement; he lifted his head to enunciate clearly: “You. Are. Not. A. Jerk.”

“Thankyou, Keith,” Lance agreed grandly. “That means a lot from a self-confessed asshole. Can I get it in writing?”

A snort, and tingles burst in the base of Lance’s spine. Keith’s smile was crooked; lifting one of his cheeks higher than the other and sending Lance’s stomach into backflips. “Dunno. I might have to reconsider.”

Okay. Wow. Yeah. So Keith was… Keith was hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Thankyou all for being so patient with me while life has been... complicated. 
> 
> One smile and Lance is a goner. Who knew?
> 
> Find me on twitter @DancingDowager and tumblr @dancingdowager.tumblr.com. Come and shout at me!
> 
> Huge thanks for the kind and wonderful writers of the KWS group for their endless support and putting up with my spam! Love you guys x

**Author's Note:**

> So guys, what do you think? I can't wait to get deeper into this, I have so much stuff planned for you! Fluff everywhere. 
> 
> I'm sure some clever soul has already figured out where 'Aphrodite in Silk' comes from... if you have, let me know! You can also find me on twitter @DancingDowager or on tumblr at Dancing Dowager Writes, https://dancingdowager.tumblr.com/. Prompts, critiques, fandom chat or random keysmashes always welcome! I love to hear from you!
> 
> Take care of your lovely selves x


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